But he wasn’t enough. She wanted someone in command track. All the command track jigs aboard were paired already—she wrinkled her nose at the two who were wasted on each other, as she thought—and she was not attracted to the single male lieutenant. A major? Could she? She did not doubt her ability to get his interest, but—regulations were supposed to prevent him from dallying with junior officers in his chain of command.
Regulations, as everyone knew, could be bent into pretzels by those with the wit to do so. Still it might be better to look elsewhere . . . which led her to a major in another branch of technical track. It never hurt to have a friend in communications. On her next assignment, he was followed by a lieutenant in command track, and then—with some difficulty in detaching from the lieutenant—by another major. She learned something from each about the extent of her talent, and what advantages could come from such close associations.
Now, though, she was through with casual liaisons. She had found the right man. Against all expectations—she was sure that her grandmothers and aunts would be amazed—she had found a respectable, intelligent, charming young man whom even her father would consider eligible. That he was an ensign, and she a lieutenant, two ranks higher, meant nothing to her. He was mature for his age, and best of all . . . he was a Serrano. Family is everything, she had heard all her life. The one-eyed son of a chief is better than a robber’s by-blow. And better family than Serrano—grandson of an admiral, with other admirals in the family tree—she could not hope to find.
The only snag was that rumor said he was, or had been, interested in Esmay Suiza. Casea discounted that. Esmay had been a nonentity, even aside from being a prig. Not pretty, with a haphazard set of features topped with fluffy, flyaway hair of nondescript brown. The boy had hero worship, that’s all it was. Suiza had turned out to be a hero of sorts, but nothing could make her beautiful or charming. And now, if rumor were true, she was in trouble for being untactful—Casea could believe that, no question. If she ever had a lover, which didn’t seem likely, it would be someone as unspectacular as herself, another nonentity, probably just as tactless and doomed to as inglorious a career.
Still, Esmay’s present disgrace would make it easier for Casea to pursue Barin Serrano unhindered. And surely that Serrano grandmother wouldn’t want him connected to someone like the bad Lieutenant Suiza. It would take very little, Casea thought, to make absolutely sure that no one ever admired Lieutenant Suiza again.
It was getting harder to get up off the floor to use the toilet; Brun realized that in addition to the pregnancy she was getting weaker because she didn’t exercise much. How could she? The compartment would have been small for one person; with an adult woman, a girl, and two small children, it was impossibly crowded. And at any time, one of the men might look in; she could imagine how they would react if they caught her doing real exercises. She tried to make herself pace back and forth, but she quickly ran out of breath, and leaned on the bulkhead panting. The girl watched her with a worried frown, but looked away when Brun tried to smile at her. As Brun had shared more of the work, the girl had accepted that help, but always with reserve.
That night when the lights dimmed, signalling a sleep period, the girl slept at her back, curled around her. Brun woke to a breath of air in her ear. She started to lift her head, and felt a gentle push downward. The girl?
“Elias Madero,” came the words. “Merchanter.”
Brun squirmed as if trying to find a comfortable position. Merchanter . . . the merchanter ship. This girl must be off that ship. Excitement coursed through her . . . she knew something now.
“’M Hazel,” the girl breathed. Then she too squirmed, as if moving in her sleep, and rolled away.
The rush of joy from those five words burst through her. This must have been how Lady Cecelia felt, when she first made contact with the world again.
A wave of shame followed. Lady Cecelia had been locked in paralysis and apparent coma for months . . . and months more of painful rehab . . . and she had been old. Brun was young, healthy . . . I am not defeated. I am only . . . detained on the way to victory. So she might bear children for these animals . . . so she might be a prisoner for months, for years . . . but in the end, she was who she was, and that would not change.
She rolled over with difficulty, and looked through narrowed lids at the girl . . . at Hazel. She had been impressed before at the girl’s patience, her consistent gentleness with the little girls, her endless invention of quiet little games and activities to amuse them. But she had given up hoping for any real contact, after the first long stretch of days . . . the girl was too scared. Now she appreciated the courage of this thin, overworked, terrified girl . . . still a child herself . . . who cared for two younger children and Brun. Who dared, in the face of threats, to say a few words of comfort. She had lost everything too—parents, most likely. Were these children even her sisters? Maybe not, but no one could have done more for them.
She pushed herself up to use the toilet; on the way back she noticed that Hazel had rolled over again, as if offering Brun a niche convenient to her ear. Brun lay down, grunting, and pretended to sleep. Her arm slid sideways, touched Hazel’s. She twisted—she was uncomfortable—and traced the letters of her name on Hazel’s arm before moving her arm away.
Hazel turned, burying her face under her hair, and a soft murmur came to Brun’s ear. “Brun?”
Brun nodded. A wave of excitement ran through her; the baby kicked vigorously as if aware of it. Someone besides the men knew who she was . . . an ally. She had made contact . . . it wasn’t much, but it gave her hope, the first real hope she’d had.
The next day, she watched Hazel covertly. The girl seemed the same as always—busy, careful, quiet, patient, warm with the children and remote with Brun. When Brandy’s restlessness grew toward a tantrum, Hazel intervened, steadied her . . . and Brun was reminded of an expert trainer with a fractious young horse. When she thought of it that way, she began to grasp how Hazel was using the children’s need to steady herself. She could be calm, she could follow the senseless rules, because she had someone for whom she was responsible.
And who was Brun’s responsibility? The words she had heard from Lieutenant Commander Uhlis came back to her. If she had been a Regular Space Service officer, her duty would have been clear—to escape, or if that was not possible, to live, gathering information, until she could escape. But she wasn’t. And even if she had been—even if she pretended to be—was that duty enough to sustain a lifetime such as she faced? What if she never had a chance to escape?
The baby inside her moved, as if it were doing a tumbling act. Surely one baby couldn’t make that much disturbance. Some people would say that it was her responsibility, but she did not feel that—it had been forced onto her, into her, and it was not hers at all. It was an abomination, as the men claimed she was.
Was she then her own responsibility? Her mouth soured. Not enough to make a lifetime as these men’s slave tolerable, or even bearable. She had spent too many hours already planning how she could escape life, if not them, once they lowered their guard. Eventually they would.
But . . . what if there were a chance, however slim, to keep Hazel and the little girls from her own fate? Somewhere, she was sure, her father was searching. Fleet was searching. It might be years; it might be too many years . . . but it might not. Hazel was compliant not entirely from fear, but also from hope, the hope that some help might come—if she had not had some hope, she would never have dared share her name, and her ship’s name, with Brun. So she, Charlotte Brunhilde Meager, could fix her mind on Hazel and the little girls—on saving them.