A soft whoosh from beside her, and the voice cut off. She turned to look and found herself facing the ominous maw of a weapon, with a very tense Security guard in armor behind it.
“Hands on your head, step this way.”
In the face of the weapon, Esmay didn’t argue. She knew she was who she said she was; she knew she hadn’t done anything criminal, but this was not the time to say so. She put her hands on her head and stepped this way.
Beyond the booth, two more guards waited, both armed, with weapons drawn. The first guard picked up her carryon from the booth, and the other two waved her ahead of them down a corridor considerably quieter than the reception hall had been.
“In here.” Here was a small compartment where a female security officer searched her thoroughly under the watchful eyes of the guards and the very obvious scan units mounted in the corners.
“You may sit down,” the security officer said finally. Esmay sat down, more disturbed than she liked to admit to herself.
“Is there something wrong with the ID scan?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” the officer said. “Wait here.” She left, and the guards remained. The one carrying her bag had disappeared.
Time passed. Esmay thought of all the obvious things to say—there’s been some kind of mistake, what’s the matter, why are you holding me—and said nothing. Whatever was wrong, she might as well wait until she found someone in authority.
More time passed. She repressed a deep sigh and wondered if her former enemies, Casea Ferradi’s friends, had framed her for some crime. Finally a very angry-looking commander stalked in and slapped down a folder on the table.
“I have orders to separate you from the Regular Space Service, as of today.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“I think you know very well, Lieutenant Suiza.” His tone made a curse of her name. “And it would be best if you simply accepted the mercy of this separation with no more protests.”
Despite herself, her voice rose a tone. “Excuse me, Commander, but according to the law I have a right to know what I stand accused of and a chance to defend myself.”
“In a time of war, as you very well know, summary justice can take the place of a court-martial. Though if you prefer to sit around in a Fleet brig for the next year or so until we have time to convene a court, I’ll inform the admiral of your request.”
“I want to see the charges,” Esmay said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Oh? And what do you call seducing Admiral Serrano’s grandson, in direct contravention of the rules prohibiting relationships between Fleet officers and Landbrides of Suiza? For that matter, you did not inform Fleet of your Landbride status until over a year after you became one—also a breach of regulations—”
“But that was because of the NewTex mess—”
“And you had concealed your family’s political prominence as far back as your application to the Academy—”
“I did not!”
“And then you coerced the boy into marrying you.”
So many things were wrong with that sentence that Esmay didn’t know where to start. “He’s not a boy—and I didn’t coerce him—”
“And if you ask me, your so-called rescue of Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter was an obvious ploy to gain political influence in that family—”
“What—I should have let her die?”
“You should have stayed back on your stupid dirt-ball planet and planted potatoes like the rest of your backward peasantry . . . Fleet has no place for your kind.” He leaned forward, glaring straight into her eyes. “You’re getting your discharge ID, more than you deserve. I don’t care if you get home or not. I don’t care if you live through the next hour. But if you cause the least trouble on this Station—anything at all—I will personally stuff you into an airlock and open it to vacuum. I am speaking for my CO and Admiral Serrano in this. Is that clear?”
What was clear was the uselessness of argument. Esmay took her credit cube—at least they’d given it back—and hoped she looked less shaken than she was on her way out. The looks she got from personnel were less scathing than she’d feared. Either they didn’t believe it, or hadn’t heard it.
Once into the civilian side of the station, she ducked into a secure combooth to give herself time to think. Admiral Serrano. It had to be Vida Serrano, but . . . but Captain Atherton on the Rosa Gloria had said she’d accepted the marriage. Had she changed her mind? Why? She scolded herself: she had more immediate problems than answering that. She checked her balances in the credit cube and called up current rates for a ticket home. She could just get there, on a roundabout base-rate route that would take months and give her no chance to clear herself. She looked at the rates to Castle Rock. No direct passenger travel for another three weeks. She didn’t dare stay here for three weeks, not with local brass looking for an excuse to arrest her.
She scrolled through the list of ships in port, hoping inspiration would strike. The only name that looked remotely familiar was Terakian. That girl, Hazel, who’d been captured with Brun, had a name something like that. Terakian? Takeris? Even if she was wrong, they might know. She could ask, anyway.
Chapter Four
The man who answered the call had the rakish good looks of a storycube pirate. “Terakian Fortune, Basil Terakian-Junos here.”
“I’m trying to locate the young woman named Hazel, who was rescued with Brun Meager from the NewTex Militia—I thought her last name was Terakian . . . ?”
His expression changed slightly. “Hazel—how do you know Hazel?”
“I’m—I was—in the task force.”
“And you are?”
“L—” she bit off the rank she no longer held. “Esmay Suiza.”
“You’re Lieutenant Suiza?” Now he looked alert, and pleased. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, Lieutenant. How can we help you?”
Best get it out of the way. “I’m not a Fleet officer now.”
“But I thought—well, then, sera, what can we do for you?”
“I’m trying to find transportation off this station, in the general direction of Castle Rock. I know there’s a passenger ship going that way in three weeks, but I need to leave sooner, if I can.”
“I hear a story in that. You’re in a secure booth, right?”
“Yes.”
“B Concourse?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come along to the dockside, sera? It sounds as if we need to talk.” And he didn’t trust a secure combooth, that was clear. “Concourse D, level 2, number 38. We have a dockside office there; I’ll meet you.”
“I’ll come now,” Esmay said. She called up a station schematic on the combooth display and then the transportation layout.
B Concourse had a transgrav tram across to D; Esmay glanced at the schedule display and hurried out of the booth. Down there—yes—she stepped into the car marked D just as the door alarm sounded. Someone who had come up rapidly behind her tried to push past the safety barrier, but a tram guard stopped him. Esmay pulled the safety bars down around her seat and settled in. D car was half full; she could see through the windows in the end of the car that C was packed.
The tram made two more stops in B; then, after a warning whoop from the gravity alarms, slid through the G-lock barriers. Esmay’s stomach insisted she was falling, but outside she could see the great bays of the heavy cargo handling section. The tram stopped, and a couple of uniformed cargo workers bounded up and into D car. At the next grav barrier, weight returned, and at the next junction, several cars turned off to other sections. D car continued through another low-grav compartment, and Esmay emerged at the second D stop.