“Yes, sir,” Esmay said, when his gaze flicked back to hers.
“Some captains would be concerned about a junior officer who had been involved in a mutiny, no matter how . . . er . . . warranted the action was later shown to be.”
“I’m sure that’s true, sir,” Esmay said, unruffled. She had dealt with this sort of thing all her life. “There must be some officers who remain concerned even after a court has considered the matter in detail. I can assure the captain that I will not overreact to such concern, if anyone expresses it.”
Hakin stared. What had he thought, that she’d turn red and bluster, trying to justify herself? She had stood before a court; she had been exonerated of all charges; she need do nothing but live out her innocence.
“You seem very sure of yourself, Lieutenant,” Hakin said finally. “How do you know that I am not one of those so concerned?”
Idiot, thought Esmay. His determination to prick her had overcome his good sense. No answer she could give would entirely ease the tension he had created. She chose bluntness. “Is the captain concerned?”
A long sigh, through pursed lips. “About many things, Lieutenant, of which your potential for mutiny is only one minute particle. I have been assured, by those who are supposed to know, that the public reports of your court-martial were in fact accurate . . . that there is no suspicion of your having conspired to mutiny ahead of your captain’s treacherous act.” He waited; Esmay could think of nothing helpful to say, and kept quiet. “I shall expect your loyalty, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Esmay said. That she could do.
“And have you no corresponding concern that your next captain might also be a traitor? That I might be in the pay of some enemy?”
She had not let herself think about that; the effort pushed her response into exclamation. “No, sir! Captain Hearne must have been an aberration—”
“And the others as well? You’re happier than I, if you can believe that, Lieutenant.”
Now what was he getting at?
“We’ve had investigators all over every ship in the Fleet—and that’s reassuring only to those who think the investigators can’t be bent. A mess of trouble that Serrano woman caused.”
Esmay opened her mouth to defend Heris Serrano, and realized it would do no good. If Hakin seriously believed that Serrano had “caused trouble” by unmasking traitors and saving the Familias from invasion, she couldn’t change his mind. She could only ruin her own reputation.
“Not that she isn’t a brilliant commander,” Hakin went on, as if she had said something. “I suppose Fleet must count itself lucky to have her back on active status . . . if we do get into a war.” He looked at Esmay again. “I’m told Admiral Vida Serrano is pleased with you . . . I suppose she would be, since you saved her niece’s neck.”
That, too, was unanswerable. Esmay wished he would get to the point, if his point was not merely to needle her, trying to get some sort of reaction.
“I hope you don’t have a swelled head from all the attention, Lieutenant. Or some kind of psychological trauma from the strain of the court-martial, which I’ve been warned is sometimes the case, even with a favorable verdict.” From his expression, he would want some kind of answer this time.
“No, sir.” Esmay said.
“Good. I’m sure you’re aware that this is a time of crisis for both the Fleet and the Familias. No one knows quite what to expect . . . except that on this ship, I expect everyone to attend to duty. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, Lieutenant; I’ll see you from time to time as the mess rotations come around.” He dismissed her with a nod, and Esmay went out trying to suppress a resentment that she knew would do her no good. No one lasted long in any service with a “why me?” attitude; she wasn’t to blame for the things held against her, but what was new about that? In the history of the universe, Papa Stefan had taught them all, life was unfair more often than not . . . life wasn’t about fair. What it was about had filled more than one evening with explosive argument . . . Esmay tried not to think about it more than necessary.
She handed her order chip to the clerk in the front office. “What’s my duty assignment, do you know?” He glanced at it and shook his head. “That’s the 14th Heavy Maintenance Yard, Lieutenant: Admiral Dossignal’s command. You’ll need to report to his Admin section . . . here—” He sketched out a route on her compad. “Just keep going clockwise around the core, and you’ll come to it at the base of T-3.”
“Is the bridge on this deck?” asked Esmay, gesturing to the color-coded deck tiles.
“No, sir. The bridge is up on 17; this ship’s too big for the usual color-codes. There is a system, but it’s not standard. We call this command deck because all the commands have their headquarters units here. That’s just for convenience, really; it cuts down the transit time.” Esmay could imagine that in a ship this size any hand-carried message could take awhile to arrive. She had never been on a ship where the captain’s office and the bridge were not near each other.
On her way around the core, she passed another obvious headquarters, this one with a neat sign informing her that it was the Sector 14 Training Command, Admiral Livadhi commanding. Underneath were smaller signs: Senior Technical Schools Admin Office, Senior Technical Schools Assessment, Support Systems. She walked on, past the base of another wing, this one labeled T-2. That was where she would be living, but she didn’t have time to explore it now. On and on . . . and there ahead she saw a large banner proclaiming Fourteenth Heavy Maintenance Yard: The Scrap Will Rise Again. Below that, smaller signs directed the ignorant to the administrative offices. There, a bright-eyed pivot-major sent her directly to the admiral’s chief of staff, Commander Atarin. He greeted Esmay’s appearance in a matter-of-fact way she found reassuring. He had already read her report on the inventory aboard the supply ship, and seemed far more interested in that than her past.
“We’ve been trying to nail our supplier on these leaky adhesive tubes for a couple of years,” he said. “But we couldn’t prove that the supplies were damaged before we got here. I’m glad old Scorry—the XO on that supply ship—thought of having you go over the stock on your way here. We may finally get some leverage on them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much experience do you have with inventory control?”
“None, sir,” Esmay said. Her record cube, she knew, was on the XO’s desk, but he might not have had time to look at it.
“I’m impressed, then, especially that you caught those fasteners. Most people give up after fifty or sixty items. Or assume the computer will catch it. It’s supposed to, of course—there’s supposed to be automatic labeling, right from the manufacturing machinery. Zero-error, they keep claiming. Never have seen zero errors, though.” He grinned at her. “Of course, it could be someone from the IG’s office, putting little tests in our path, to see if we’re alert.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to Esmay, though sabotage had. But he hadn’t been on Despite.
“Of course, it could also be enemy action,” he said. She hoped he hadn’t seen that on her face. “But I’d rather believe in stupidity than malice.” He looked down at his desk display. “Now let’s see . . . your last duty was on a patrol craft—your emphasis on your last few cruises was scan technology. Frankly, we have plenty of scan tech experts aboard now, all more experienced than you in the field. It would do you good to branch out, get some expertise in other ship systems—” He looked up as if expecting her to disagree.