“Are you all right? All right?” He spoke a little too slowly, a little too loudly, as if she might be a deaf child.
Brun shook her head and mimed writing a message.
“Oh—you want to say something?”
Yes, she wanted to say something, something very firm. Instead, she smiled and nodded, and mimed writing again. Finally, someone handed her a pad.
HOW’S ESMAY? she wrote.
“Lieutenant Suiza is fine,” the medic said. “Don’t worry—you won’t have to see her again. It was strictly against orders—”
What were they talking about? Brun grabbed the pad back. I WANT TO SEE HER.
“That’s not a good idea,” the medic said. “You weren’t supposed to see her at all. We understand how traumatic it was—”
Brun underlined the words I WANT TO SEE HER and shoved the pad back at him.
“But it was all a mistake . . .”
SAVING MY LIFE WAS A MISTAKE? That came out in a scrawl he had to struggle to read.
“No—her being involved. Your father said, under no circumstances should you have to see her, after what she said about you.”
Her father. Rage boiled up. Carefully calm, she printed her message. I DON’T CARE WHAT MY FATHER SAID. ESMAY SAVED MY LIFE. I WANT TO SEE HER. NOW.
“But you can’t—you need more time in regen—and besides, what will the captain say?”
She could care what the captain said. Or her father. She had not come back to the real world to be told she couldn’t talk to anyone she pleased, even if she couldn’t talk.
“She’s getting agitated,” someone else said. “Heart rate up, respirations—maybe we should sedate—”
Brun erupted from the bed, ignoring the remaining twinges, and slapping aside the tentative grab of the first medic. The other one picked up the injector of sedative spray. With a kick she had practiced in secret for months, she smashed it from his hand; it dribbled down the bulkhead. She pointed a minatory finger at the medics, picked up the pad, and tapped the word NOW.
“Good to see you up,” came a lazy voice from the entrance. Brun poised to attack, then realized it was Methlin Meharry, whose expression didn’t vary as she took in the two medics, the smashed injector, and Brun with the short hospital gown flapping about her thighs. “Giving you trouble, were they? All right boys—out.” The medics looked at each other, and Meharry, and wisely chose withdrawal.
Brun held out the pad.
“You want to see Suiza? Why, girl? I thought she trashed you at Copper Mountain, upset you so you ran away home.”
Brun shrugged—it doesn’t matter—and tapped the pad again.
“Yeah, well, she did save your life, and you saved hers I guess. Or helped. Your father thought seeing her would be a terrible trauma. If it’s not—well, it’s your decision.” Meharry’s mouth quirked. “You might want to put on some clothes, though . . . unless you want her to come down here.”
Brun didn’t. She was more than ready to get out of sickbay. Resourceful as ever, Meharry quickly found Brun a shipsuit that almost fit. It wasn’t quite as soft as the shipsuits Hazel had found on the station, but it fitted her better.
“Now—it’s customary to make a courtesy call on the captain. Since the captain told the lieutenant not to let you know she was there, and she did—this could be a bit tricky. Just so you know.”
Meharry led her through a maze of corridors to a door that had Lt. E. Suiza, Executive Officer on it. Meharry knocked.
“Come in,” Esmay said. When Meharry opened the door, she was half-sitting on her bunk; she looked pale and tired.
“Brun wants to see you,” Meharry said. “She kind of insisted, when the medics wanted to sedate her . . .”
Brun moved past Meharry, and held out the pad on which she’d already scribbled THANK YOU.
Esmay stared at it, then at Brun, brow furrowed. “They don’t have a speaker device for you! What are they thinking of!” Esmay looked almost as angry as Brun felt.
They’re worried about my stability.
“They ought to be worried about your voice, dammit! This is ridiculous. That should be the first thing—”
Thank you, Brun wrote again. My father gave you trouble?
Esmay flushed. “They got the tape of what I said to you that night—and I’m sorry, it really was insulting—”
You were right.
“No—I was angry, that’s what. I thought you were stealing Barin—as if he were my property, which is disgusting of me, but that’s how I felt.”
You love Barin? That was something that hadn’t occurred to her, even in the months of captivity. Esmay, the cool professional, in love?
“Yes. And you had so much more time, and when I was working I knew you were spending time with him . . .”
Talking about you.
“I didn’t know that. Anyway—I said I’m sorry. But they think—they thought—I had something against you and your family. Your father didn’t want me involved in the planning, or with the mission. But that’s not the important thing—the important thing is getting you a voice.” Esmay thought for a moment. Meharry. Meharry knew everyone and everything, as near as Esmay could tell. If that device on the station had survived, Meharry would know where it was, and if it hadn’t, she’d know what would work.
“A speech synthesizer? Sure—I can get you one. Just don’t ask where.”
Ten minutes later, a young pivot, so new he squeaked, delivered a briefcase-sized box that flipped open to reveal a keyboard of preprogrammed speech tags as well as direct input.
“Here,” Esmay said. “Try this.”
Brun peered at it, and began tapping the buttons. “It looks like the one Lady Cecelia used on Rotterdam,” said a deep bass voice.
Esmay jumped, then started laughing.
“Let’s see what this one sounds like,” the box said, this time in a soprano.
“I didn’t like that one, let’s try this . . .” came out in a mezzo; Brun shrugged. “I’ll keep this one.”
“I wonder why they didn’t do this first,” Esmay said. “If they had a speech synthesizer aboard, why not give it to you right away.”
“Arrogance,” Brun keyed in. “They knew what I needed; why ask me?”
“Brun, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t waste time. Thank you. You saved my life.”
Esmay was trying to think how to answer that one when Brun’s next message came out.
“And by the way, who’s doing your hair? It looks good even after being squashed in a suit.”
“Sera Saenz—Marta Saenz—took me to this place, Afino’s.”
“Raffaele’s Aunt Marta? You must have impressed her if she took you there. Good for you.”
Esmay could not believe how fast Brun was keying in the words, as if she’d used one of these for years. “You’re good with that thing,” she said.
“Practice,” Brun keyed. “With Cecelia. And you cannot know how good it feels. Now—what’s going on with Fleet and the planet? Hazel wants to get the other kids out.”
“And your babies,” Esmay said. “Your father’s adamant about that: he’s not leaving his grandchildren there.”
“He can have them.” Brun’s expression dared Esmay to question that, and she didn’t.
“I don’t know what the whole situation is,” Esmay said. “Because, since I’m in disgrace for letting you know I was here, they won’t tell me. You’re on a search—and-rescue ship; there’s a task force with us, but what we’re doing is microjumping around keeping out of the way of the Militia warships.”
“Who can I talk to?” Brun keyed. “Who’s giving the orders?”
“On this ship, Captain Solis. For the task force, Admiral Serrano.”
“Good. I need to talk to her.”
“Admiral Serrano?” Esmay remembered in time that Brun already knew the admiral . . . she might in fact listen. “I can get you as far as Captain Solis, but there’s a blackout on communications with the task force.”
“Captain Solis first,” Brun keyed in. Esmay nodded and led the way without another word. Brun glanced at Esmay. Besides the more effective haircut, there was something else different. She realized, as Esmay led her through the ship and she saw others defer to her, that Esmay might indeed be in disgrace but she was far more than Brun had imagined. This was what she’d been like at Xavier, or on Koskiusko? Her own idiocy struck her again, the way she had condescended to this woman, the way she had assumed that Esmay was no more than any other student, no more than, for instance, herself. That man in the combat veterans’ bar had been right—she had not understood at all.