Rules of Engagement

Boros’ agent at Bezaire would not have been happy to find the contents of that container, since she had a contract to supply the cube players and the entertainment cubes supposedly filling the rest of Hold 5.

Elias Madero came out of FTL flight, retranslating to normal space, to traverse the real-space distance between two jump points in the same system, colloquially known as Twobits. This shortcut had been marked "questionable" on standard charts for years, because the presence of two jump points in the same system was believed, on theoretical grounds, to lead to spatial instability of the jump points. If the insertion point shifted, an inbound ship might find itself emerging too close to a large mass, with no time to maneuver clear. But the nearest greenlined route meant three more jump point calculations, and added eleven days to the Corian-Bezaire passage. Since jump point temporal coordinates were fuzzy anyway, many commercial haulers used shortcuts to ensure that they met contractual delivery dates . . . while filing flight plans that were all greenlined.

This crew had made the traverse before, many times, without incident. The jump points had not shifted in the past fifty years, while the possibility that they might kept the system uncrowded.

On this trip, system insertion went as smoothly as usual, and the Elias transferred to insystem drive without a hitch.

"That’s done, then," Captain Lund said to his navigator, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. "Four days, and we’ll be out of here again. I’m going to bed." Custom and regulation both required that a captain be on the bridge during jump point insertions; Lund had been up three shifts running because of a minor engineering problem.

His navigation officer, a transfer from Sorias Madero, a sister ship, nodded. "I have the course laid, sir. By my calculations, ninety-seven point two hours."

"Very good."

Captain Lund, balding and stocky, waited until he was in his cabin to take off his jacket and kick off his shoes. He hung the jacket up neatly, set his shoes side by side, laid his trousers, neatly folded, over the back of his chair, with his shirt over them. This was his last cycle . . . when he reached Corian again, he would retire at last. Helen . . . his grandchildren . . . the neat little house set high on a slope above the valley . . . he drifted into sleep, a smile on his face.

The sharp yelp of the emergency alarm woke him. He touched the comunit above his bunk.

"Captain here—what is it?"

"Raiders, sir."

He sat up, ducking automatically from the overhanging cabinets. "I’m on my way."

Raiders? What kind of raiders would hang around a route where almost no ships went? No ships, really—he’d never found any indication that others used this two-jump transit.

Had they been tailed through FTL? He’d heard rumors that Fleet was developing some kind of scan that worked in FTL. The Benignity? Certainly not Aethar’s World, and they were across Familias space anyway.

From the bridge, the situation was clear. Two of them, their weapons systems lighting up the scan board with red threats. On the com screen, a hard-faced man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was speaking in accented Standard—an accent he hadn’t heard before, with the words pulled out twice as long.

"You surrender your ship, and we’ll let the crew off in your lifeboats—"

Captain Lund almost choked. What good would lifeboats be, in a lifeless system that no one visited because of the paired jump points?

"Wheah’s yoah captain? I wanna talk to him."

Lund stepped up to the comunit, and nodded to his exec, who stepped back.

"This is Captain Lund. Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?"

"Takin’ yoah ship, sir." The man favored him with a tight grin that did not look at all friendly. "In the name of sacred liberty, and the Nutex Militia. We apologize for any . . . ah . . . inconvenience."

"You’re pirates!" Lund said. "You have no right—"

"Them’s harsh words, sir. We don’t like disrespect for our beliefs, sir. Let me put it this way—we have the weapons to blow your ship away, and we’re offerin’ you a chance to save your crews’ lives. Some of ’em, anyway. If you surrender your ship, and allow us to board without resistance, we will swear not to kill any of your legal crew."

Lund felt that he had waked into a nightmare, and his mind refused to work at its normal speed. "Legal crew?"

"Waal . . . yes. We’re aware, you see, that you work for a corporation with obscene and unnatural views about moral issues. In our books, there’s things that just ain’t natural and normal, let alone right, and if you have people like that on board, then they’ll have to face justice."

Lund glanced around; the faces on the bridge were tense and pale. He thumbed the com control to prevent his words going out in transmission. "Do any of you have the slightest idea who these crazies are? Or what they mean about natural and unnatural?"

The junior scan tech, Innis Seqalin, nodded. "I’ve heard a little about the Nutex Militia . . . for one thing, they think it’s wrong for women to be spacers, and for another, they don’t tolerate anything but what they call normal sex."

Lund felt his stomach churn. If they didn’t allow women in space, what kind of sex did they think was normal? And why not allow women in space? "Is it . . . something religious?"

"Yes, sir. At least, they say it is."

Lund felt even sicker. Religious nuts . . . he had gone to space to get away from them back on his home world. If these were the same sort . . . he had too many crew at risk.

"I’m warnin’ ya," the pirate officer said. "Answer, or we’ll blow your holds . . ."

"All right," Lund said, as much to gain time as anything. "I’ll send my people to the lifeboats—"

"We’ll see a crew list," the man said, smiling unpleasantly. "Right now, afore you can doctor it up. If a lifeboat separates before we’ve approved the list, we’ll blow it."

Lund’s mind raced into high gear. The crew list did not mention gender—and certainly not sexual preferences—so if he could just keep the medical records out of their hands . . .

"And the medical records," the man said, "in case you got some of them so-called modern women that don’t have good women’s names."

He could refuse, but then what? According to scan, he was facing weapons easily capable of blowing his ship. But they wouldn’t want to blow his ship . . . they would want the cargo, and perhaps the ship itself, intact.

"Personnel and medical records aren’t networked," he said, thanking whatever gods were around, including those he didn’t believe in, for the fact that this was standard, and known to be standard.

"Ten minutes," the pirate said, and clicked off.

Ten minutes. What doctoring could he do in ten minutes? And why hadn’t he denied the presence of women right away, so that he might have had a chance to pass them off as men? But the ship’s tiny medical staff had been listening, and Hansen gave him a call.

"I’m changing the genders, and stripping out all reference to gender-specific medications . . . six minutes for that. What else do you think?"

"Sequalin says they have some weird beliefs about sexual practice—but I don’t know which."

"Umm. If they go to space in single-gender ships, maybe they have obligatory homosexuality in space? I could code everyone as male/male preference."

"Yeah, but if we’re wrong . . . I don’t know."

"And what about the children?"

Elias Madero, like most commercial ships, carried some of its crews’ children aboard. Children had been found well worth the extra work and worry, in terms of keeping a crew entertained and cooperative. Right now there were six, four under school age and two taking a work-study tour as junior apprentices.

"We put the kids in the core, where the scans are least likely to find them. Sedate the littles. If they just rob the ship and go on . . . the older ones can come back out and send a message. Got to clear out the nursery, though . . ."

"Do it," Lund said. "But don’t code gender preference. Just leave it." How was he going to hide the women? And what would happen to them if they were found?

Hazel Takeris, age sixteen, had found her first working trip to be as dull as her father had warned—but she wouldn’t have missed it for anything, certainly not another five terms at the Space Dependents Middle School on Oddlink Main Station. So she had willingly performed the routine chores allotted to the apprentices, reminding herself—when enthusiasm for washing dishes or scrubbing the deck flagged—that she could have been listening to Professor Hallas discourse on the history of a planet that lay—to Hazel’s mind—in the dim past of human history. A long way away, and very far back, and who really cared which millenium had produced which oddly-named king or scientist.

When the alarm came, she was doing inventory of the galley stores, as ordered by the cook. She heard nothing of the ensuing discussion, because Cookie had told her to get back to work, and be sure her count was right. Thirty-eight three-kilo sacks of wheat flour. Six half-kilo boxes of sodium chloride salt, and four of a 50/50 mix of potassium and sodium chlorides. Eight—

"Haze—drop that and listen up." Cookie’s face was an odd shade, the rich tan paled and splotchy. "Get four emergency ration kits, and go to Core 32. Hop it!"

"What—?" But apprentices didn’t ask questions, not when a crew member looked like that. Hazel grabbed four emergency kits, and as she went past Cookie dumped two more on top of them. She scurried as fast as she could through the corridors, turned into the drop to the Core, and met her dad, who was even paler than Cookie.

"Haze—gimme two of those—now go to 32. We’re going to lock you in. I put your suit in there already. Put it on, and wait. Be sure you wait long enough."

She had grown up a spacer’s child; she could figure it out. "Raiders," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Yeah. Go on, now. You and Stinky will be awake; we’ve sedated the littles, and they’ll be in Core 57 and 62. Oh—and remember, it’s the Nutex Militia."

Hazel fell down the drop, landing easily, feet first, on the pad. Thirty-two was clockwise four; she had known the geography of this ship from early childhood. Thirty-two’s hatch was open; she slid in, dumped her rations, pulled the hatch shut, and locked it from inside. Her suit stood slumped in one corner, along with a stack of extra oxygen tanks. She got herself into it, her fingers shaking, fumbling at the catches and seals.

She started to report herself secure, on suit com, and then didn’t—what if the raiders were already aboard? No one had told her when to expect boarding; no one had told her when to come out. Wait long enough? How long was that? How was she supposed to know?

In her suit, she could not quite lie down in the compartment, but she propped herself corner-to-corner, so that if she fell asleep, she would not fall and make a noise. She had the helmet open to ambient air—no sense in wasting suit air yet, and the helmet would snap shut automatically at any drop in pressure. She looked at her suit chrono, and marked the time. Wait long enough. She wished she knew how long.

She wished she and Stinky had been in the same compartment so they could talk. As the two apprentices, they had formed a natural alliance. Besides that, they liked each other’s parents, and had spent the voyage trying to maneuver her father and his mother into some kind of arrangement. So far the adults had been resistant, but she and Stinky hadn’t given up hope. Surely everyone felt the same urge to partner that she and Stinky felt . . . that’s how adults came together to have children, after all.

Locked in the empty compartment, it finally occurred to Hazel that the straightforward solution would have been for her and Stinky to partner, and leave the parents alone . . . but she wasn’t ready to partner anyone. Not yet. Later . . . she allowed herself a few delicious minutes of imagining what it would be like if Stinky were in the same compartment, without the pressure suits or the adult supervision. She had thoughts like that, even though she had chosen to take the treatment to delay puberty; she might look only ten or eleven, but she was sixteen for true.

She pulled her mind away from that to the littles, locked away in other compartments. Sedated, her dad had said. How long would the sedation last? Brandalyn was always first up in the morning, bouncing around . . . would she come out of sedation first? Had they put her in the same compartment as her sister? Surely they’d thought of that. Stassi was quieter, and very attached to her big sister. The other two littles, Paolo and Dris, were cousins.

She looked at the chrono. Only fifteen minutes had passed. That couldn’t be long enough. The raiders might not have boarded yet. She might have to wait hours.

Her suit transmitted nonspecific vibrations that she could not identify—except that they were different from those she knew so well after all these months aboard. One hour, two, three. How long did raiders stay aboard a ship to plunder it? Docked at a regular cargo station, the automated handlers could unload a hold in seven hours and twelve minutes—if nothing went wrong. Would the raiders try to unload an entire hold? All the holds? Would they have the right equipment? How long would it take them?

It would be easier to steal the whole ship; she felt cold as she thought of it. If they did, if they took the entire ship . . . then what would happen to her? To Stinky? To the littles?

She heard noises—nearby noises. It must be the raiders, because no one had unlocked her compartment yet. Shuffling, thumping—then a shriek that stiffened her. Brandy, that would be; they had all joked that she had a scream that would slice steel plates. The child screamed again. Hazel clambered up, clumsy in the suit, and tried to unlock the hatch. She had to stop them—she had to protect the child. She had the lock undone when the hatch was yanked out of her grip, and two big men grabbed her, one for each arm, and pulled her out of the compartment. She could see Brandy kicking and screaming in the grip of another, who was trying to gag her with a length of cloth. Stassi was crying, more quietly, in the grip of another; the two little boys clung to Stinky, who looked as scared as she felt.

"A girl," one of the men said. "The perverts." Brandy’s scream choked off; the man holding her had managed to tie the gag. "You take her," he said, shoving Brandy into Hazel’s arms. "And bring her along."

She held Brandy to her, trying to comfort the child, who was sobbing into the gag. Stassi clung to one leg and Paolo to the other. Stinky carried Dris. The raiders pushed her along, back up toward the bridge.

The first thing she saw, coming into the bridge, was her dad’s body in a pool of blood. She almost dropped Brandy, but the child clung to her, legs and arms fastened tight. There were other bodies, all people she knew—Baris the navigator, and Sig the cargo chief, and—and Stinky’s mother, gagged and bound, but glaring furiously. All the women of the crew, she noted, were lying there in a row, bound and gagged. Captain Lund faced the bridge access, bound to his command seat. And all the armed men wearing the same uniform as the ones who had captured her.

The leader turned to Captain Lund. "You lied to us, captain. That wasn’t very smart." He drawled the words out, an accent that Hazel had never heard before.

"I . . . wanted to save the children."

"God saves the children, by giving them to those who will bring them up in righteousness." The leader smiled, a smile that made Hazel feel cold inside.

Captain Lund looked at Hazel, then at Stinky. "I’m sorry," he said. The leader slammed his weapon into Captain Lund’s head.

"You don’t talk, old man. Nobody talks to our children but our family. And you’re going to be really sorry that you lied . . ." He turned to his men. "Get goin’ now . . . let’s check these heathen sluts out, see if any of ’em’s worth botherin’ with."

Hazel lay in the compartment that had been the spare passenger cabin, trying to hug all the littles at once. Dris was still dozing, and she didn’t know if that was the sedative or the lump on his head. Paolo whimpered softly; Stassi had her whole hand in her mouth, sucking furiously. Brandy was out cold, snoring through the gag. Hazel wanted to take it out, but she was afraid of the man with the weapon who stood by the hatch. She was afraid of everything. She had to pretend not to be, because the littles needed her; she was the one person they knew, the one person who could make them feel safe, if anything could after what they’d been through. How could you make someone feel safe if you didn’t feel safe yourself?

She still could not believe it was all real. The soreness in her own body was real, and the hunger, and the fear, but—had she really seen all she remembered? The women who had been her aunts, her mentors, since her own mother died, all . . . she didn’t even know the words for what had been done to them, except the killing at the end. And poor Captain Lund . . . she had known him since she could remember, a gentle man, a kind man . . . and they had stuffed his mouth with the tongues of the women, and then . . . and then shot him, at the last.

Paolo whimpered a bit louder; the man by the hatch growled. Hazel stroked the child’s back. "Easy," she murmured. "Sshh." She wouldn’t think about it any more; she would think only of the littles, who needed her.

"These are the rules," the raider said. Hazel sat on the deck, with Brandy in her lap and the others nestled against her. "Look at me," the raider said. Hazel had been looking at the littles, because she’d been slapped already for looking—staring, the man had said—at one of the raiders. Now she looked up, her shoulders hunching. "That’s right," the man said. "You look when I tell you to, where I tell you to. Now listen. These are the rules. You don’t look at our faces unless you’re told to. You don’t talk. You—girlie—you can whisper to the babies if you have to, but only if none of us’s talkin’. You keep the babies clean and fed; you keep the compartment and all the rest clean; you do whatever you’re told. No talkin’, no arguin’, nothin’. If you want to keep your tongue in your head."

The grown women hadn’t believed that, at least not at first. And they had died. She had to keep her tongue, to comfort the littles.

"Now what do you say?" the man said, leaning close. She was too scared to answer; he’d just told her not to talk. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Her eyes watered. "I’ll tell you what you say, girlie. Nothing. You bow your head, when you’re told what to do, and you say nothing. Women are not to speak before men. Women are to be obedient in silence. You understand?"

Trapped, terrified, she tried to nod against the pull of his hand on her hair. He let go suddenly, and her head bobbed forward.

"That’s right," he said. "Bow your head in respect, in obedience." He straightened up and took a step backward; Hazel watched his boots. "Now you get busy, girlie, and get these brats cleaned up."

She needed clothes for them; she needed cleaning supplies. She wanted to ask . . . and she wasn’t supposed to talk.

"One of us’ll bring you what you need," he said. "Food and water, as long as you’re obedient. Decent clothes for the babies. There’s nothin’ on this heathen ship fit for you to wear; you’ll have to make somethin’. We’ll show you pictures. You’ve got the sink and toilet in there; you’ll wash their clothes in that."

She wondered why, when the crew laundry would return the dirtiest clothes clean, dry, and unwrinkled, in only a few minutes. She didn’t ask.

The supplies came a short time afterwards. Packets of food, powdered milk to mix with the water in the bathroom, sheets and towels and a sack of children’s clothes, soap and shampoo, combs and brushes. Even a few toys: two dolls, blocks, a toy groundcar. Hazel was grateful. She handed each of the littles a sweetbar, and rummaged through the sack of clothes . . . there was Paolo’s tan jumpsuit, Brandy’s striped shirt, Stassi’s flowered one, Dris’s gray jumpsuit. But none of the girls’ jumpsuits, nor the shorts they wore with shirts.

The littles were so dirty—she couldn’t tell which were smudges and which were bruises. As they finished their sweetbars, she herded them into the bathroom, and used the towels and soap to clean them up. Then she got them all dressed, as much as possible, and folded the rest of the clothes. Four more shirts, four more jumpsuits . . . three sets for each child, if only they’d been complete. And for herself . . . nothing but a long-sleeved pullover that was really Stinky’s; it had been in her compartment because she’d traded shirts with him, this last segment. She didn’t put it on because she had nothing to wear with it . . . the thought of wearing that on her top, and nothing below, was worse than nothing at all.

She stacked the clothes neatly in one corner, and put the food in another. She let the children sort through the toys. Brandy chose blocks, as always; Stassi hugged her doll to her chest, fiercely. Paolo began handing blocks to Brandy, while Dris put the other doll in the groundcar and rolled it along the floor.

The hatch slammed open, startling her; she almost looked up but remembered in time. The littles did look up, but quickly glanced away, toward her.

"Why aren’t you dressed, girlie?"

She must not speak. She didn’t know how to answer without speaking. She shook her head, spread her hands.

The boots moved closer, the big hands tossed aside the neat stack she’d made of the clothes, and came up with Stinky’s pullover. The man threw it at her. "Put this on, girlie. Now."

She fumbled her way into it. "You wrap yourself in one of them sheets." She hadn’t thought of that; she scrambled across the deck, grabbed a sheet, and wrapped it clumsily around her body. How could she make it stay? Something thumped on the deck in front of her—a small canvas bag. "That’s a sewing kit—if you can’t sew, better learn. Make yourself something decent from the sheets. Cover your arms, everything to the ankles. Don’t make the skirt too full. Only decent married women wear full skirts. Make them girl babies skirts too; sew ’em to their shirts." He walked around, stood over the littles.

"What’s this?" She didn’t look up; didn’t answer. "Now girlie, you got to teach these babies right. Girls play with girls; boys play with boys. Girls got dolls; boys got boys’ toys. You keep ’em separate, you hear?"

But Brandy and Paolo were friends; they’d played together since infancy. And Brandy always played with blocks and building toys. Hazel crouched, scared and furious both, as the man knocked down Brandy’s block tower, and moved her near her sister. "You—take this doll." Brandy took it, but Hazel could see the anger in her eyes, almost enough to overcome the fear. Paolo, left with the scattered blocks, had already picked one up and was reaching toward Brandy. "No!" the man said. "No blocks for girls. Blocks for boys." Paolo looked puzzled, but Brandy let out a furious screech. Casually, the man slapped her against the bulkhead. "Shut up—you better learn now, sissie."

The next days were, if possible, a worse nightmare. The littles could not understand any of the restrictions; Hazel struggled to keep them separated as the raiders demanded, to keep them engaged with "appropriate" toys, to keep the compartment clean enough, herself "decent," and still figure out how to make the garments the raiders demanded she furnish for herself and the girls. She had never sewn anything in her life; she had seen Donya using the sewing machine to create artworks they sold when they stopped at Corian, but clothes came from shops, or—in emergencies—the fabricator. You put in the measurements, dialled the style, and out came clothes. She had no idea how to turn flat cloth into the tubelike garment in the picture the raiders showed her.

It wasn’t a practical garment anyway. Snug tubes for the arms, a long one covering her from armpits to ankles . . . no one could sit comfortably, walk comfortably, climb and play and do things in a shape like that. But she didn’t argue. She struggled to figure out the odd implements in the sewing kit: dangerous thin sharp bits of metal that had no place around small children, reels of fine thread, scissors, a long tape marked off in sections that corresponded to no measuring system she knew, a short metal strip—also marked in sections—with a sliding part.

Sewing by hand was much harder than it looked, though when she figured out that the tiny cup-shaped thing would fit over her finger and protect it from pricks of the long sharp thing that the thread fit through, she got along better. The fabric seemed to have a mind of its own; it shifted around as she tried to poke through it. But finally she had a long straight skirt attached to the bottom of her pullover, and skirts on the girls’ shirts. They hated them, and pulled them up around their waists to play . . . but that, it turned out, was something else forbidden to girls.

"You were reared among heathen," the man said. "We know that, and we make allowances for it. But you’re among decent folk now, and you must learn to act like decent folk. It is forbidden for any female to show herself off to men; these girl babies must be decently covered at all times."

Then why, Hazel wanted to scream, won’t you let us have underwear? Long pants? And how can you call a toddler playing on the floor a female showing herself off to men? She said nothing, but bobbed her head. She had to protect the littles, and she could do that only by being there—being able to sing them to sleep, to comfort them in a murmur that grew softer day by day.

She had no idea how much time had passed when the daily visitor first took the boys out of the compartment. By then, of course the raiders knew all the children’s names. At first, Paolo and Dris hung back . . . but the man simply gathered them up and carried them out. Hazel was terrified—what would they do to the boys? But in the time it took to feed the girls their lunch, the boys were back, grinning from ear to ear. Each held a new toy—Paolo had a toy spaceship, and Dris had a set of brightly colored beads.

"We had fun," Dris said. Hazel shushed him, but Paolo spoke up.

"We can talk. They said so. Boys can talk all they want. It’s only girls have to be quiet."

Brandy scowled. "Gimme!"

"No," Paolo said. "This is mine. Girls can’t play with boys’ toys." Brandy burst into tears.

After that, day by day, the boys were weaned away from the girls. Daily visits outside the compartment—they returned with glowing reports: they could run up and down the corridors; they could use the swings in the gym; they could use the computer in the schoolroom. The men fed them special foods, treats. The men were teaching them. The men read to them from books, new books, stories about animals and boys and exciting stuff. They were gone hours a day now, returning to the compartment only for baths and bed. Hazel was left with the girls, the two dolls, and the endless sewing.

"You teach those girl babies to sew," Hazel was told. "They’re old enough for that."

They didn’t want to learn, but that made no difference. Hazel realized that. But . . . no books at all? No vid, no computers, no chance to run and play? She didn’t ask. She didn’t dare. She didn’t even dare tell them stories, the stories they knew, because the compartment was rigged for scan. She had been warned to talk no more than necessary . . . telling them stories would, she knew without asking, be breaking the rules.

The days dragged by. Stassi, though younger, was better with needle and thread than Brandy. Her stitches were ragged and uneven, but she could get them lined up into a sort of row. Brandy, more active by nature, fretted and fumed; her thread kept getting into knots. Hazel tried to find ways to let the child work off her wild energy, but in that small space, and hampered by a long skirt, the child was constantly being frustrated. She cried often, and had screaming tantrums at least once a day.