"You never had any suspicion that she was using illicit pharmaceuticals?" one of them asked for the third time.
"No, sir," Esmay said. She had said that before. Captain Hearne had never appeared under the influence, not that Esmay would have been able to recognize subtle effects of drugs . . . even if she'd seen that much of Hearne. Esmay had no way to know what she was taking. Nor had she investigated Hearne's cabin after the mutiny to find out. She had had a battle to fight.
More questions followed, on Hearne's motivation; Major Chapin cut those off repeatedly. Esmay was glad to sit and let him handle it; she felt stale and grumpy as well as tired. Of course she didn't know why Hearne might have turned traitor; of course she didn't know if Hearne had been in debt, had had political connections to a foreign government, had harbored some grievance against Fleet. How could she?
Her own motivations came into question; Esmay answered as calmly as she could. She had harbored no grievance against Captain Hearne, who had spoken to her only a few times. When Hearne's private log came into evidence, she found that Hearne had described Lieutenant Junior Grade Suiza as "competent but colorless; causes no trouble, but lacks initiative."
"Do you feel you lack initiative?" asked the board chair.
Esmay considered this. Were they hoping she'd say yes, or no? What hook did they plan to hang her on? "Sir, I'm sure Captain Hearne had reason to think that. It is my habit to be cautious, to be sure I understand the situation fully before stating an opinion. I was, therefore, not the first to offer solutions or suggestions when the captain posed a problem."
"You didn't resent her opinion?"
"No," Esmay said. "I thought she was right."
"And you were satisfied with that?"
"Sir, I was not satisfied with myself, but the captain's opinion seemed fair."
"I notice you use the past tense . . . do you still feel the captain's evaluation of you was accurate?"
"Objection," Chapin said quickly. "Lieutenant Suiza's present self-evaluation and its comparison to Captain Hearne's prior evaluation is not an issue."
At last it wound down . . . all the evidence given, all the questions asked and asked again, all the arguments made by opposing counsel. Esmay waited while the officers conferred; in the reverse of the Board procedures, she stayed in the courtroom while the members withdrew.
"Take a long breath," Chapin said. "You're looking pale again . . . but you did very well."
"It seemed so . . . so complicated."
"Well, if they let it look as simple as it is, they'd have no good reason for a trial, except that it's the regulations. With all the media coverage, they don't want to make it look easy; they want it to look as if they were thorough and demanding."
"Can you tell—?"
"How it will come out? If they don't acquit you of all charges, I'll be very surprised . . . they have the Board report; they know you've been chewed on about mistakes. And if they don't acquit, we'll appeal—that'll be easier, actually, out from under the media's many eyes. Besides, they found themselves a bad apple to squash, that young Arphan fellow."
The officers returned, and Esmay stood, heart beating so that she could scarcely breathe. What would it be?
"Lieutenant Junior Grade Esmay Suiza, it is the decision of this court that you are innocent of all charges made against you; this court has voted unanimously for acquittal. Congratulations, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, sir." She managed to stay on her feet during the final ceremonies, which again included greeting each officer on the court, and the prosecuting counsel, who—now that he wasn't badgering her with questions—seemed friendly and harmless.
"I knew we didn't have a chance," he said, shaking her hand. "It was obvious from the evidence, really, but we had to go through with it. Unless you'd come in here blind drunk and assaulted an admiral, you were safe enough."
"I didn't feel safe," Esmay said.
He laughed. "Then I did my job, Lieutenant. That's what I'm supposed to do, scare the defendant into admitting every scrap of guilt. You just didn't happen to have any." He turned to Chapin. "Fred, why do you always get the easy ones? The last fellow I had to defend was a mean-minded SOB who'd been blackmailing recruits."
"I'm rewarded for my virtues," Chapin said blandly, and they both laughed. Esmay didn't feel like joining in; she felt like finding a quiet place to sleep for a week.
"What'll you do now, Lieutenant?" asked one of the other officers.
"Take some leave," she said. "They said it'd be awhile before they had a new assignment for me, and I could have thirty days home leave plus travel. I haven't been home since I left." She wasn't that anxious to go home, but she knew no other way to escape the media attention.
Altiplano
Esmay thought she had outdistanced the last of the newshounds two stops before her homeworld Altiplano. When she came out of the arrival lounge into the main concourse, the bright lights blinded her for a moment. They had figured out where she was going, of course. She set her jaw and kept going. They could have all they liked of her walking from one side of the station to another. They might even get someone on the down shuttle, but once she hit the dirt, they would find themselves blocked. That would be one good to come out of this misconceived homecoming.
"Lieutenant Suiza!" It took a long moment, several strides, for her to realize that one of the yells wasn't a newshound's demand for a comment, but her uncle Berthol. She looked around. He wore his dress uniform, and Esmay groaned inwardly, thinking ahead to the reaction of her Fleet acquaintances when they saw the newsclips of this. When he caught her eye, he quit waving and pulled himself rigid. Sighing, Esmay stopped short, bracing against the expected crunch from behind, and saluted. When her father had sent word that he could not meet her at the station, she'd assumed that meant no one would . . . she hadn't expected Berthol.
"Good to see you, Esmaya," he said now, opening a path between them with a glance that sent the newshounds scurrying out of the way.
"And you, sir," Esmay said, very conscious of the scrutiny of the cameras.
"God's teeth, Esmaya, I'm not a sir to you." But the twinkle in his eye approved of her formality. The stars on his shoulders glittered as the cameras shifted for better angles, their spotlights crisscrossing. Esmay had told Fleet that her father was one of four regional commanders . . . she had not reminded them what must be in her file, that her uncles Berthol and Gerard were two of the others. "I guess you didn't starve in Fleet, after all. You know Grandmother is still convinced you can find nothing legal to eat . . ."
Esmay found herself grinning even as she wished he hadn't brought that up. Grandmother was his grandmother, not hers—well over a hundred, and an influence as potent in her way as Papa Stefan in his. "I'm fine," she said, and turned, hoping to convince Berthol not to grandstand for the cameras.
"More than fine, Esmaya." He sobered, and touched her shoulder gently. "You give us pride. We are more than glad to have you home." Now he turned; his aides, she noticed now, had been scattered in the crowd and now came together at his back. The glaring lights receded behind them despite raised voices. "When we get down, we will celebrate."
Esmay's heart sank. What she really wanted was a quiet drive out to the estancia, and a room with windows open to the rose garden . . . and a full night's sleep, a night that fit her body's rhythms.
"We can't waste this," he said more quietly, as they walked straight past a departure lounge full of people she didn't know, who were giving her the soft tongue-clicking applause she remembered so well. Berthol ushered her into the waiting shuttle, and into the rear compartment which his aides closed off as they came through.
"What's going on?" Esmay asked. Tension curdled her stomach; she did not really want to know.
"What's going on . . . you'll be fully briefed later," Berthol said. "We didn't reserve a full shuttle—we thought it would be too obvious. Natural enough to have a private compartment. And there's no way out of the welcoming celebration, though I'm sure you're ready for a vacation at home, eh?"
Esmay nodded. She glanced around at Berthol's aides. The militia ranks were not those of Fleet, exactly; the insignia, except for stars marking flag rank, were completely different. It came back to her in a rush. Infantry, armor, air, navy—what her Fleet called, somewhat disparagingly, "wet-fleet." All four branches here, all of them older than she was. The one wearing armor tags had an ear-wire, and now he turned to Berthol.
"General Suiza says it's all ready, sir."
"Your father," Berthol said. "He's in charge down there, for reasons that will become clear later. In the meantime, there'll be a formal ceremony at the shuttleport—blessedly brief, if I know your father—then a parade into town, and a formal presentation at the palace."
"Presentation?" Esmay squeezed that in when Berthol took a breath.
"Ah—" He seemed embarrassed a moment, then lowered his voice. "You see, Esmay, when it was your action that saved an entire planet, and then you don't even get a token of recognition from your Fleet . . ."
Dear God. Esmay scrambled through all the possible explanations she could make—that he would not understand—and realized it was no use. They had decided that
her
Fleet had not sufficiently honored her, and it would do no good to point out that her acquittal was itself acknowledgement and reward. Besides, she knew that someone had put in a recommendation for a medal—which made her skin itch to think of it. She wished they'd just forget it. But this—
"And it's not like you're just any shaggy pony out of the back lots," Berthol went on. "You're a Suiza. They're treating you—"
"Very well, Uncle Berthol," she said, hoping to stop him, if she couldn't stop the ceremony.
"No—I don't think so. Nor does the Long Table. They've voted to give you the Starmount—"
"No," Esmay breathed. She was uneasily aware that something deep inside disagreed, and breathed
yes.
"And a title of your own. To be converted if you marry on Altiplano."
Dear God, she thought again. She didn't deserve this. It was ridiculous. It would cause . . . immense trouble either way. No matter that Fleet would not realize it had been intended as a rebuke—they would find it awkward, and that made her awkward.
"Not much of a steading with it," Berthol said. "In fact, your father said he'd provide that; it's that little valley where you used to hide out . . ."
Despite herself, Esmay felt a stab of pleasure at the memory of that little mountain valley, with its facing slopes of poplar and pine, its grassy meadows and clear stream. She had claimed it years before in her mind, but had never thought it would be hers. If it could be . . . she remembered some R.S.S. regulations she was afraid might interfere.
"Don't worry," Berthol said, as if he could read her mind. "It's under the limit—your father ran a new survey, and chopped it short at the upper end. It's under the glacier there. Anyway, if you need to refresh yourself on the protocol of the award ceremony . . ."
She did, of course. The data cube the major with the armor insignia handed her contained not only the ceremony, but a precis on recent political developments, and her family's position on all of them. The Minerals Development Commission was still squabbling with the Marine Biological Commission over control of benthic development. Some things never changed, but in the years she'd been gone the focus of the battle had shifted from the Seline Trench, as the colonies of interest to the biologists died, and were mined for their rich ores, to the Plaanid Trench, where new vents nourished new vent communities. That quarrel would have been unimportant on many worlds, but on Altiplano the Minerals Development Commission represented the Secularists, while Old Believers and the Lifehearts controlled the Marine Biological Commission. Which meant that an argument over exactly when a benthic vent community was dead and could be mined might erupt in religious riots around the entire planet.
"Sanni," Berthol said, when she had clicked off the cube reader, "is involved with the Lifehearts again."
Esmay remembered vividly the moment when her romantic feelings about the night sky became utter certainty that she would have to leave her home forever. Her aunt Sanni—Sanibel Aresha Livon Suiza—and her uncle Berthol, screaming at each other across the big dining room at the estancia. Sanni, a Lifeheart as rigid in her piety as any Old Believer. Esmay found the Lifeheart philosophy attractive, but Sanni in a rage terrified her. Yet it was Berthol who had thrown the priceless chocolate pot, shattering its painted water lilies and swans, scarring the wide polished table. Her own father had walked in on the end of that, with Sanni scrabbling on the floor for shards and Berthol still yelling. And Papa Stefan, two paces behind him, had shamed them both into apologies and hand-shakings.
Esmay hadn't believed it. Whatever was wrong between Sanni and Berthol stayed wrong, and was still wrong, and here she was back in the middle of it.