Once her helmet was off, Sula shut down the pinnace, took two small data foils out of the computer and put them into envelopes.
One foil was the log of the journey, and went into an official envelope that would be turned over to the Fleet Records Office for examination and filing. The other contained her personal information, the communications from Martinez and all the books and entertainment he’d sent her.
She put the private data into the small bag of personal gear she’d carried onto the pinnace with her, then sealed the bag into the thigh pocket of her vac suit. She popped the door into the airlock trunk, grabbed the hand bar over her head and hauled herself out of the couch. The airlock was now “down,” and she lowered herself into it, clumsy in the suit, shut off the lights in the pilot’s compartment and sealed the door behind her.
She didn’t spare the interior of the pinnace another glance. She was glad to see the last of it.
The hatch hissed open, and Sula crawled down the docking tube until she emerged in the ready room, blank white walls and floor, the better to show any dirt or contamination. Hands reached down to help her stand, and it wasn’t until Sula got to her feet that she realized the hands belonged to Martinez. He wore his undress uniform and a broad smile.
Vertigo eddied through Sula’s inner ear. “My lord,” she said.
“Welcome back to the world, cadet.” His hands guided her a step or two forward, and three expressionless, disinterested riggers in sterile disposable smocks and caps descended on her and began to strip off her vac suit. Martinez relieved her of the official envelope. “Is this the log? I’ll take it, then.”
“I’m supposed to deliver it myself.”
“I’ll sign a chit for it,” Martinez said. “It has to be delivered to the Investigative Service, not to Fleet Records.”
“Oh.”
“Lawyers armed with writs have already descended onMidnight Runner. Not that it will do them any good—the Fleet has lawyers as good as anyone’s, and I’m sure it’s already been decided which senior officer is going to get the new toy.”
Efficient hands opened all the vac suit’s pockets, retrieved her personal belongings, some tools, and a pony bottle of air. The air supply and recycler was detached from the seat, the valves sealed, and the upper suit section detached from the lower. The riggers shoved her arms above her head, then pulled the top of the suit off.
Sula, arms high, was suddenly aware that she didn’t smell very good. She lowered her arms as the riggers began to prepare to drop the lower half of the vac suit. She looked up at Martinez.
“Would you mind turning your back?”
Martinez turned, and the riggers stripped the suit and its sanitary gear down Sula’s legs. Martinez looked down as he took a datapad from his belt and wrote on it. One of the riggers held out a pair of sterile drawers, and Sula stepped into them. Martinez pressed a button and the datapad spat out a foil, which he took and held over his shoulder.
“Your chit.”
“Thanks.” Collecting it. “You can turn around.”
Martinez did so. The expression of polite interest on his face betrayed no awareness of the fact that he was looking at an unwashed, slack-muscled woman with greasy hair, pasty skin, and a shirt stained with prominent sweat patches that hadn’t been changed in many long days. Sula had to admire his self-control.
“I’ve got you a room in the cadets’ quarters at the Commandery,” he said.
“I don’t have to live on the ring?” Sula was impressed. “Thanks.”
“I’m using my staff privileges while they last. You can shower in your quarters, and get a bite if you want, and then we’ve got an appointment with my tailor.”
“Tailor?”
“Lord Commander Enderby is going to decorate you in a ceremony tomorrow. You can’t show up in what you’re wearing.”
“Oh. Right.”Decorate? she thought.
“I got your height and weight and so on out of your records. The tailor’s put a uniform together from that, but you’ll still need the final fitting.”
Elastic snapped around Sula’s ankles as the riggers knelt and put slippers on her feet. The vac suit was carried off for checkout, refurbishment, sterilizing, and storage. A thought struck her. “I don’t have to wear parade dress, do I?”
“Full dress, not parade dress.”
“Oh, good. My feet and ankles are swollen from sitting all this time on that couch, and I’d hate to get fitted for a pair of boots right now.” And then she remembered.
“Decorate?”she asked.
“Medal of Merit, Second Class. You’ll be decorated with nine others, after which there will be a reception and questions from reporters.” He gave her a significant look. “The yachting press. Answer their questions fully and freely, and if you want to give credit to my brilliant plan for your success, I think it would only be just.”
Sula looked at him. This last was said in a jocular tone, but perhaps with more emphasis than necessary.
“I think I’d like to take a shower now,” she said. She knew that showers were always adjacent to the sterile ready rooms, and her whole body shrieked for soap and hot water.
“Certainly. This way.”
He directed her to the changing room and politely held the door for her.
“I’m likely be here awhile,” she said.
“Take all the time you like.” He smiled. “By the way, I arranged a furlough for you, starting in two days. It’ll last until the death of Anticipation of Victory, and then all furloughs are off anyway.”
He smiled again and let the door sigh closed behind her. Sula turned and propped the door open with one hand. He looked at her, his heavy brows raised.
“Are you always this efficient?” she asked.
Martinez tilted his head as he considered the question. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I am.”
Sula, wearing her new uniform and medal, sat in the Commandery’s cadet lounge, where three separate football games blared from the video walls. She was perched on a chair of carbon-fiber rods with a lemon-flavored beverage in her hand, while Cadet Jeremy Foote lounged before her in another, deeper, overstuffed chair.
“Martinez?” Foote said. “He’s got you in his sights, has he?”
“Sights!” snorted Cadet Silva from the sofa. “Bang! Another virgin gone!”
Silva, Sula thought, was very drunk.
“Virgin?” Foote said. He turned to Sula and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a virgin, are you? That would be original.”
“I’m pure as the void itself,” Sula said, and enjoyed the expression that crossed Foote’s face as he tried to work out exactly what she meant.
She had sought out the cadet lounge because it was one of the few places in the Commandery where an off-duty cadet was permitted. Senior officers and politicians apparently preferred to work, drink, and dine without having to rest their eyes on the gauche, ill-mannered, pimpled, and inebriated apprentice officers.
After a brief exposure to Cadet Silva, Sula was beginning to think they had a point.
“So is there anythingwrong with Martinez?” she asked.
“Nothing, if you’re attractive, female, and a shop girl,” Foote said. “He’s got money and a degree of charm and a limited sense of style, and I’m sure he gives his usual sort of companion no reason to complain. But those from a higher station in life can’t be so very impressed.” He gave Sula a significant look. “Youcould do much better, I’m sure.”
“Troglodyte!” Silva called. “That’s whatwe call him!” His voice grew excited. “Goal!Did you see that? Point forCorona! A header off the goalie’s hand!”
“Troglodyte?” Sula asked.
Foote smiled thinly and swiped at the cowlick on his blond head. “It’s those short legs of his. And the long arms. Have you noticed? He must be a throwback to some primitive form of human.”
“But he’s tall,” Sula protested.
“It’s all in his back. The legs are short.” He nodded. “Mind you, he’s got a good tailor. The cut of the jacket hides it, except it can’t hide the hands that hang almost to his knees.”