Chapter Nine

As he expected, when he reported aboard he was called to the captain’s cabin. Captain Escovar . . . he had looked Simon Escovar up in the Captains’ Lists. Escovar was a commander, with combat experience at Patchcock, Dortmuth, and Alvara; he had, besides an impressive array of combat decorations, the discreet jewels that denoted top rank in academic courses ranging from his cadet days at the Academy to the Senior Command and Staff Course.

"Ensign Serrano," he said, in response to Barin’s formal greeting. "Always glad to have a Serrano aboard." The twinkle in his gray eyes suggested that he meant it. "I served under your . . . uncle or great-uncle, I suppose. There are too many of you Serranos to keep straight." Barin had heard that before. And the Escovars, though an old Fleet family, had never had as many on active service at one time as the Serranos. "You’ve had an unusual set of assignments so far, I see. I hope you won’t find us too mundane."

"By no means, sir," Barin said. "I’m delighted to be here."

"Good. We have only three other command-track ensigns at the moment, all with a half-standard year on this ship." Which meant they already knew things he would have to scramble to learn. "My exec is Lieutenant Commander Dockery. He has all your initial assignments."

Lieutenant Commander Dockery spent five minutes dissecting Barin’s past career and preparation, pointed out that he was a half year behind his peers, and then sent him on to Master Chief Zuckerman to get his shiptags, data cubes, and other necessities. Barin came out of Dockery’s office wondering if Zuckerman was another step on the "cut the ensigns down to size" production line.

Master Chief Zuckerman nodded when Barin introduced himself. "I served with Admiral Vida Serrano on the Delphine. And you’re her grandson, I understand?" Zuckerman was a big man, heavily built, who looked about forty. Rejuv, of course; no one made master chief by forty.

"That’s right, Chief."

"Well. How may I help you, sir?" A lifetime’s experience with the breed told Barin that the twinkle in Zuckerman’s eye was genuine . . . for whatever mysterious reasons senior enlisted sometimes decided to like young officers, Zuckerman had decided to like him.

"Commander Dockery told me to acquaint myself with the starboard watch orders—"

"Yes, sir. Right here." Zuckerman fumbled a cube out of a file. "This has your schematics, your billeting list, your duty stations. Now you can either view it here, or check it out; if you check it out, it’s a level-two security incident, and I’ll require your signature on the paperwork."

"I’d better check it out," Barin said. "I’m on duty four shifts from now, and I’m supposed to know it by then."

"You’ll do fine, sir," Zuckerman said. He rummaged a bit in a drawer and came up with an array of papers. "Captain likes hardcopy on all checkouts of secured documents, so it really is paperwork."

Barin signed on the designated line, initialled in the spaces. "When do I have to have it back?"

"Fourteen hundred tomorrow, sir."

Barin smiled at him. "Thanks, Chief."

"Good to have you aboard, sir."

There were worse ways to start ship duty than by having a master chief for a friend; Barin went off to put his duffel in his quarters considerably cheered. He knew Zuckerman would be as critical—perhaps more critical—than another man; he knew he would have to live up to Zuckerman’s standards. But if a master chief took a youngster under his wing, then only a fool would ignore the chance to learn and prosper. It was probably due to his Serrano inheritance—but that worked both ways, and it was pleasant to have it working his way for once.

Young officers in command track were expected to know everything moderately well; ensigns rotated through various systems and sections of the cruiser, learning by doing—or, as often, by making mistakes less critical at their level than later on. The other three ensigns aboard had all started at the bottom—environmental—and completed their two-month rotation there, so Barin expected his first assignment: unaffectionately known as the "shit scrubber special."

"Your nose is unreliable," he was told by the environmental tech officer he reported to. "You think it stinks—and it does stink—but your nose gets used to it. Use your badges and readouts, and any time you’re actually opening units, suit up. This stuff is deadly."

Barin wanted to ask why they weren’t all dead then, but he knew better than to joke with someone like Jig Arendy. It was clear from her expression that she took sewage treatment very seriously, and—he suspected—spent every spare moment reading up on new technology.

She led him through the system he would help maintain, explaining every color-coded pipe, every label, every gauge and dial. Then she turned him over to Scrubber Team 3, and told him to do a practice inspection of the system from intake 14 to outputs 12 to 15. "And you can’t use that old saw about flagpoles," she warned him. "This is my test team, and they’ll do exactly what—and only what—you tell them."

Barin heaved an internal sigh, but started in. He remembered almost everything—he forgot to have them turn off the check-valve between primary feed and the intermediate scrubbers—and Arendy gave him a grudging thumbs-up. Then she spent ten minutes with the flow diagrams explaining exactly why that check-valve should be closed during routine inspections.

* * *

In a few days, Barin felt he was fitting in well. All four command-track ensigns bunked together; they were pleasant enough, and genuinely glad that someone else had the scrubber duty for the next two months. Meals in the junior wardroom enabled him to meet the other juniors—jigs and lieutenants—who were his immediate superiors. Jig Arendy, he discovered, could talk about something other than sewage; she turned out to be an avid follower of celebrity newsflashes. She and a handful of others discussed celebrities as if they were family members, endlessly poring over their clothes, their love affairs, their amusements. When she found he’d been at Copper Mountain with Brun Meager, she wanted to know all about it. Was she really as beautiful as her pictures? What kind of clothes did she wear? Had there been many newsflash shooters around?

Barin answered what he could, but luckily it did not occur to Arendy that he himself might have been a target of Brun’s attention. When the wardroom discussions of Brun became uncomfortable, he took himself off. He would much rather listen to Zuckerman’s tales of the old days in Delphine, with his grandmother. She’d never told him about the time a missile hung in the tube with a live warhead.

He mentioned that to Petty-light Harcourt, while they were replacing a section of feeder pipe.

"Zuckerman is . . . well, he’s Zuckerman," the petty-light said.

Barin was surprised at the tone. P-lights knew more than he did, and he’d never met one who didn’t admire a master chief. But Harcourt sounded unsure. He thought of asking more, but decided against it. Whatever it was, a mere ensign shouldn’t be getting involved. If Harcourt had a serious problem, he also had the seniority to feel comfortable taking it to his own commander.

He had come to that decision when Harcourt sighed, an expressive sigh, and went on.

"It’s like this, sir . . . Zuckerman’s got a fine record, and I’m not saying anything against him. But he’s . . . changed, in this last tour. He’s not the man he was. We all know it, and we make allowances."

But allowance shouldn’t have to be made, not for a master chief. Harcourt was still looking at him, and Barin realized he was expecting a comment.

"Family?" he murmured. It must’ve been the right thing to say, because Harcourt relaxed.

"I wouldn’t bring this up with a junior officer, begging your pardon sir, but you are a Serrano, and . . . well . . . the chief’s always talking about the time he served with a Serrano on Delphine. It’s not anything we—I—can understand. It’s not all the time. Just sometimes he’s . . . it’s like he forgets things. The kind of thing you just don’t forget, not with his years. We—I—have to have someone check his pressure-suit settings, for instance. One emergency drill, he didn’t even have his suit sealed."

He shouldn’t be hearing this. Someone considerably senior should be hearing this. Because anything which could make a man like Chief Zuckerman forget to seal his suit was too much for an ensign to handle.

"I did say something to Major Surtsey," Harcourt went on. "He arranged to have the chief called in for a random health survey, but . . . that was one of his good days. And on his good days, he’s sharper than I am. And then the major was reassigned, and I . . . I was just . . . I don’t quite know how far to take this."

So the sticky problem had just been handed off to a very junior ensign. With the Serrano reputation. No good to tell Harcourt that he didn’t feel comfortable with it either . . . the job description for ensigns did not include comfort.

"And you’d like me to take this on upstairs?" Barin asked.

"It’s up to you, sir," Harcourt said. "Although . . . if I could make a suggestion . . ."

"Sure," said Barin. Having hooked the ensign, of course the petty light could play him.

"Commander Dockery is . . . prefers to have . . . all the ducks in a row, sir, if you know what I mean."

"In other words, I should investigate this myself, and have some documentation?"

"Well . . . yes, sir."

He would have to have something, that was certain, something more than the word of a petty-light who might have some grievance Barin didn’t know about. "I’ll have a look," he said to Harcourt, who looked satisfied with that. He himself had no idea how to go about finding out if a senior NCO was going bonkers for some reason.

He remembered what Brun had said about that man at the Schools . . . what was his name? She’d claimed he was making too many mistakes, but that was right before she and Esmay had the big fight. Barin had no idea what had happened after that, if anyone else had confirmed Brun’s suspicions. She was, after all, only a civilian, and she might not have told anyone else.

Still, he paid close attention to Zuckerman every time his own duties took him that way. The man seemed much like every other master chief he’d met, decades of experience providing him with a depth of knowledge and competence far beyond the ability of an ensign to assess. Zuckerman could be missing whole chunks, and he’d never know it. He liked Zuckerman, and Zuckerman seemed to like him; he felt that Zuckerman would have liked almost any Serrano. He hoped he wouldn’t find anything to worry about; he worried that he might miss something important.

But most of the time he was too busy to worry, too busy to find time to visit Zuckerman. He had his own work, in an area remote from Zuckerman; he had watches to stand, inspections to take, duties that kept him busy. He had peers, the other ensigns in both command and technical tracks, whose personalities and relationships became ever more important as time went on. Jared and Leah were already engaged; Banet recorded a cube every other day for someone on Greylag. Micah had quarreled with Jared over plans for the ship’s Commissioning Day festivities, and Leah had blown up at Micah in the junior wardroom in a way that reminded Barin painfully of Esmay.

He tried not to think of Esmay. As time wore on, he could not stay angry, but he remained confused. They had liked each other a lot, back on Koskiusko; they had shared secrets neither had told anyone else. He had expected her to welcome his presence at Copper Mountain—and granting that she had been extremely busy and tired, there was still something else different about her, a new reserve, a tension. And then there’d been Brun, always around when he wanted to talk to Esmay, always with time on her hands. Exuberant when Esmay was reserved. Jolly when Esmay was serious. Fun when Esmay was . . . he would not say dull, because to him she was never dull, but . . . busy, tired, not really present when she was sitting right beside him.

Perhaps she never had loved him. Perhaps it had worn off, and she was too kind to say so. That didn’t make sense, though, if she was angry because she thought Brun had tolled him into her bed. He thought of sending mail . . . but after all, their quarrel wasn’t his fault.

* * *

As he came to know the other junior officers better, he noticed that he kept running into one in particular: Casea Ferradi. He’d heard of Casea Ferradi back at the Academy, but she’d graduated before he started. He knew how rumors grow with time, and assumed that the stories of her beauty and her behavior were both inflated.

Barin first noticed Lieutenant Ferradi because of her hair—that uncommon golden blonde, like Brun’s, but different. Brun’s hair had a life of its own; it curled vigorously even when just groomed, and when she was upset or excited, and raked her fingers through the curls, it looked like an uncombed poodle. Lieutenant Ferradi’s hair lay in a sleek wave beside her perfect cheekbones. Blondes were rare in Fleet. Perhaps that accounted for Lieutenant Ferradi’s nickname, Goldie, which he heard in the junior wardroom the first night.

He noticed her next because she kept showing up where he was, and speaking to him. She was a jig on the watch rotation, so of course she would be where he was part of the time. But he began to realize that he saw her more than any other jig, even when she wasn’t on shift watch.

He hadn’t thought about her being in Esmay’s class at the Academy until she brought it up.

"You know Lieutenant Suiza, don’t you, Ensign?" That, while initialling the midwatch report.

"Yes, sir."

"I wonder if she’s changed much," Ferradi said. "We were classmates, you know."

"No, sir, I didn’t know that." He wondered if she might have some insight into Esmay’s recent behavior, but felt reluctant to ask her.

"I mean," Ferradi went on, as she fiddled with the datawand, "she was such a stiff, formal person. Not really friendly. But from what everyone says, she’s such a born leader—so I was wondering . . ."

Tiny alarm bells rang in his backbrain, but his forebrain was ahead of them. "She’s fairly formal, yes . . . but I believe it has something to do with her background."

"Oh yes." Ferradi rolled her eyes. "Both of us were the colonial outcasts, you know. I’m Crescent Worlds—I think they expected me to insist on wearing one of those trailing silk things." Her hands fluttered and waved. Barin had no idea what she meant, and his expression must have showed it because she laughed. "Oh—I guess you haven’t seen the bad storycubes about us. I think they got the costumes from back on Old Earth, because of course no one actually wears them. Long flowing garments that cover young women from head to toe, but flutter fetchingly in the breeze."

Barin had no time to pick out what detail had set off the alarms again, because she’d gone on, her pleasant, slightly husky voice soft and amused.

"But Esmay—Lieutenant Suiza—she told me once her whole family was military. Very formal, very correct. Which is why I can understand her having a quarrel with the Speaker’s daughter, but not how she could lead anyone anywhere."

Barin had his mouth open before caution stopped him; he had to say something. "I—didn’t know the quarrel was common knowledge."

Ferradi laughed again. "I don’t see how anyone could keep it quiet. It was on the newsflashes, after all. Screamed like a harpy, is what I heard, and told the Speaker’s daughter she had no more morals than a tavern whore."

"It wasn’t like that!" Barin said. He couldn’t have said how it wasn’t, since Esmay had been loud and insulting, but his instinct was to protect Esmay.

Ferradi looked at him with an indulgent smile that made him feel like a small child. "That’s all right, Ensign; I’m not asking you to turn your back on a Fleet hero."

She made him feel uncomfortable. She was always looking at him . . . he would glance up and discover those clear violet eyes, and an amused quirk to her mouth. She seemed to impinge on his space in a way that Esmay never did. Brun, though she had been overtly interested in his body, had backed off without rancor when refused. But this . . .

He went into the gym convinced that whatever was going on was his fault. He had done something—what, he couldn’t figure out—that aroused her interest. He climbed onto the exercise machine he’d reserved, and set the controls. Past the warmup phase, into the sweaty part of the workout, his mind drifted to Esmay. She was exec of a specialty ship now; he could imagine her in a rescue situation . . . she might do something spectacular, and get back in everyone’s good graces.

"Hello, Ensign." The husky voice broke his concentration. There beside him, on the next machine, was Ferradi. Barin blinked, confused. She hadn’t been signed up for that machine; he’d made sure of that. But now she was warming up, her body as sleek as her golden hair in a shiny exercise suit that outlined every curve. Barin, panting slightly, nodded a greeting.

"You’re a hard worker," she said, starting her own machine. "I guess that goes with being a Serrano, eh?"

He had to say something; she was still looking at him and it would be rude to ignore her—possibly even insubordinate.

"It’s . . . expected . . . sir," he said.

"No need for formality in the gym," she said. "I approve . . . of the attitude, and the results, Barin." Her look ranged over him, with particular attention he couldn’t mistake.

Well, he would have to say something . . . but before he could, Major Oslon climbed onto the machine on Ferradi’s other side.

"Hey, Casea . . . let Serrano finish his workout. He’s too young for you anyway. I, on the other hand . . ."

She gave Barin a last lingering look before turning to Oslon. "Why, Major . . . you’re incorrigible. Whatever makes you think I’m after Ensign Serrano?"

"Glad to know you’re not. I must have been misled by the fit of that exercise suit."

"This old thing?" Barin had seen less obvious flirting from professionals at the trade, but Oslon didn’t seem to mind. He and Casea bantered awhile, and when he invited her to a game of parpaun, she agreed—with a last lingering look at Barin that bothered him all over again.

A few days later, Barin was on his way through Troop Deck on a routine inspection of the traps in the heads—hairballs in the traps were a constant problem. A peculiar crunch caught his attention. He hesitated. Another, and then another. Which compartment was it in? He looked around, trying to locate the sound . . . slightly behind him, and to the right. A slither-and-bump, followed by the sounds of something heavy being dragged, came next, and pinpointed the source: D-82.

Barin looked in, to see Master Chief Zuckerman, face almost purple with rage and exertion, dragging someone by the heels.

"Chief—what’s going on?"

"Outa my way!" Zuckerman said, breathing heavily. The Chief did not seem to recognize him; his eyes were dilated.

"Chief—" Barin could not see clearly past him, but the limpness of the legs Zuckerman held bothered him. He lifted his gaze a little . . . down the row of racks to one with a depression where someone had been sitting . . . a needler case on the pillow . . .

"Chief, put that down." Barin had no idea what had happened, but it was trouble all the same. He reached back for the alarm beside the hatch.

"Oh, no you don’t, you puppy!" Zuckerman dropped the man’s feet and charged. Barin ducked aside, and Zuckerman kept going, bouncing off the opposite bulkhead. By then Barin had slapped the alarm, cutting in local scan.

"Security, ASAP!" Barin said. "Man down, possible assault!"

Zuckerman turned, more slowly than he’d charged. "Not possible—the bastard attacked me. Me, a master chief with . . . with . . . twenty . . . twenty . . ." He shook his head. "He shouldn’t have done that. Not right."

"Chief," Barin said, cautiously. "What happened?"

"None of your lip, boy," Zuckerman said. His eyes narrowed. "What the devil are you doing wearing officers’ insignia? That’s illegal. You want to get tossed out? You take those pings off your uniform this minute, Pivot."

"Master Chief Zuckerman," Barin said. "I asked you a question." For the first time in his life, he heard the Serrano bite in his own voice—the family pride that knew, bone-deep, what it was.

Zuckerman stared at him, his face blanking a moment. Then he looked confused. "Uh . . . Ensign . . . Serrano? What’s . . . what’s that you were asking me, sir?"

"Chief," Barin tried again, but cautiously. Where was Security? How long would it be? "I’m watch officer today. I heard something funny, and came to look. You were in 82, dragging someone, and there’s a needler case on a rack." He paused. Zuckerman stepped forward, but Barin put up his hand. "No. Don’t go in there. Security’s on the way; I want nothing disturbed. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I—he—he was going to kill me." Zuckerman was sweating now, his face shiny with it. His hands opened and closed rhythmically. "He pulled a needler; he said he’d never be caught." He shook his head, then looked at Barin again. "Son of a bitch actually tried it—if I didn’t have good reflexes, I’d be dead in there. So I—so I grabbed his hand, got the needler, and—and hit—" He turned pale and sagged against the bulkhead. "I hit him," he whispered. "I hit him . . . and then I hit him . . . and—"

"Chief. Stay where you are. Can you do that?"

Zuckerman nodded. "Yes, sir. But I—but I don’t know—"

"Just stay there. I need to check the guy. What’s his name?"

"Moredon. Corporal Moredon."

"All right. I’m going in; I want you to stay exactly where you are." Again, the Serrano tone—he could hear it himself; he could see its steadying effect on Zuckerman.

Moredon lay where Zuckerman had dropped him, unmoving. Barin stepped closer. Now he could see the bruises and blood on the man’s head, and a long streak of blood on the deck where he’d been dragged. Was he breathing? Barin couldn’t tell; he knelt beside the limp body. Yes. Through the open mouth he could just hear a low snore, and feel the moist breath against the back of his hand.

He stood up, and went back to the corridor. Zuckerman stood where he’d been told, and down the corridor came a Security team, with medical assist.

"Sir?" said the sergeant in charge of the Security team. His gaze flicked quickly from Barin to Zuckerman, down to Zuckerman’s hands, back to his face, and Barin could see the puzzlement in his eyes.

"There’s a man down in 82," Barin said crisply. "Head injuries, but he’s breathing. You’ll need to secure the area for forensic examination, and look for a loose needler."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. He waved the medical team forward, and gave the necessary orders to his team. Then he glanced at Barin again. "Did . . . uh . . . the man in there attack Chief Zuckerman, sir? Or you?"

"If you please, Sergeant, just see to it that the area is secured, and that the injured man is treated appropriately." Before the sergeant could comment, Barin turned to Zuckerman. "Chief, I need you to come with me to make a report. Can you do that?"

"Of course, sir." Zuckerman straightened up. "What’s the problem?"

Barin wished he had an answer for that. "We’ll let the Exec sort it out," he said. It occurred to him, as he led the way back up to command deck, that perhaps he should have brought along an escort. What if Zuckerman got violent again? Surely he wouldn’t, but all the way up to command deck, his neck prickled at the thought of Zuckerman behind him.

He met Lieutenant Commander Dockery coming down the ladder from command deck, and came to attention.

"What is it, Ensign?"

"Sir, we have a real problem. Permission?"

"Go ahead . . . wait, who’s that with you?"

"Chief Zuckerman, sir. There’s been an incident—"

"I know you called for Security. At ease, both of you. Spit it out, then, Ensign."

Barin spit it out, aware all the time of Zuckerman—his age, his seniority, his record—standing there looking entirely too confused still.

Dockery glanced at Zuckerman. "Well, Chief?"

Zuckerman’s voice trembled. "Commander, I . . . I don’t quite know what happened . . ."

"Did this individual attack you?"

"I—I think so. Yes, sir, he did. It’s—I can almost see it—"

Dockery gave Barin a look he could not interpret. "Did you . . . do anything with the Chief, Ensign?"

"No, sir."

"Was he sedated by security?"

"No, sir."

"You came up here with someone you’re accusing of assault, without sedating him or putting him under guard?"

"Sir, he’d calmed down. He wasn’t—"

Dockery touched one of the com panels on the bulkhead. "XO to med, stat response team to my location." He turned back to Barin. "Ensign, the Chief is clearly not himself. He needs medical evaluation prior to anything else."

"I feel fine, Commander," Zuckerman said. Indeed, he looked like the model of a master chief. "I’m sorry to have upset the ensign; I’m not sure why . . ."

"Just routine, Chief," Dockery said. "Just a checkup, make sure you aren’t coming down with something."

A team of medics arrived, carrying crash kits. "Commander?"

"Chief Zuckerman’s had a little spell of confusion this morning. Why don’t you take him down to sickbay and check him out. He might need a little something to calm him."

"There’s nothing wrong with me," Zuckerman protested. Barin noticed his neck flushing again. "I’m . . . sorry, Admiral!" He stared at Barin and saluted stiffly. Barin felt a coldness settle into his belly; he returned the salute, just to get Zuckerman to relax. "Whatever you say, Admiral," Zuckerman said, though no one had said anything in the surprise of seeing a master chief confuse a grass-green ensign with an admiral.

"Just a checkup," Barin said, afraid to let his gaze wander to see how Commander Dockery was taking this. Zuckerman was staring at him with an expression halfway between fear and awe. "It’ll be fine, Chief," he said, putting what he could of the Serrano voice in it. Zuckerman relaxed again.

"By your leave, sir."

"Go along, then," Barin said. The medics led Zuckerman off, with the obvious care of professionals ready to leap to action.

"Well, Ensign," Commander Dockery said. "You’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t you?"

Barin knew better than to protest that it wasn’t his fault. "I know I did something wrong, Commander, but I’m not sure what I should have done."

"Come along, and I’ll tell you as we go. Down on Troop Deck, wasn’t it?" Dockery strode off, leaving Barin to follow. Over his shoulder, he asked, "And just how much of Zuckerman’s problem did you know about?"

"Me, sir? Not much . . . another NCO had said something, but he said it had been checked by another officer and nothing was found."

"Did you look for anything? Or did you just ignore it?"

"I looked, sir, but I didn’t know what to look for. The times I talked to him, Chief Zuckerman seemed fine to me. Well, there was once . . . but it didn’t seem that important."

"And you didn’t see fit to pass on what this other NCO told you?"

Barin began to see the shape of his sin looming ahead. "Sir, I wanted to have something definite before bothering you."

Dockery grunted. "I’m just as unhappy to be bothered with trifles as anyone else, Ensign, but I’m even more unhappy to be bothered with a large problem that someone let get big because he didn’t know what to do about it."

"I should have told you right away, sir."

"Yes. And if I’d chewed on you for bringing me vague unsubstantiated reports, well—that’s what ensigns are for. To provide jaw exercise for grumpy executive officers. If you’d told me, or this other mysterious NCO had told me—and who was that, by the way?"

"Petty-light Harcourt, sir."

"I thought Harcourt had better sense. Who’d he tell before?"

"Uh . . . a Major Surtsey, who was transferred out. He said they’d done a med check, and found nothing."

"I remember . . . Pete told me about that before he left, but said he hadn’t found anything definite. I said I’d keep an eye out . . . thinking my officers would have the good sense to pass on anything they heard . . ."

"Sorry, sir," Barin said.

"Well. All you youngsters make mistakes, but mistakes have consequences. In this case, if I’m not mistaken, the ruin of a good man’s career."

They were on Troop Deck now, and Dockery led the way to the right passage and compartment as if he never needed to stop and think. Barin supposed he didn’t.

The security team had cordoned off the passage, and as Dockery arrived so did a forensics team.

"Commander . . . all right to go on and start collecting evidence?"

"If it’s been scanned. Come on, Ensign, I want to show you how to do this."

If Barin had not been so aware of his failings, it would have been a fascinating hour. But it was followed quickly by a less pleasant time in Dockery’s office.

"Remember—the chewing out you get for bothering me with a nonproblem problem will never be as big as the one you get for not bothering me with a real problem."

"Yes, sir."

"Unless Zuckerman turns out to have an unsuspected medical problem—and anything big enough to excuse this would probably get him a medical out—he’s in big trouble."

Something tickled a corner of Barin’s mind. Medical problem? He cleared his throat. "Sir—?"

"Yes?"

"I—something I just remembered, sir, about another senior NCO back at Copper Mountain."

"Relevant to this?"

"It might be, sir. But it’s not something I observed myself, it’s just that when you said medical problem . . ."

"Go on, Ensign."

Barin related the story of the master chief whose crew was covering up for some strange memory lapses as succinctly as possible. "And, sir, back on Koskiusko, I remember being told that the master chief in inventory had had a breakdown after the battle . . . everyone was surprised, because he’d been in combat before, and he wasn’t directly involved anyway."

"And . . . you’re wondering what affected three master chiefs? Do you have any idea how many master chiefs there are in the whole Regular Space Service?"

"No, sir," Barin said miserably. So this one had been a stupid idea, too.

"Of course, by the time they’re master chiefs, most of the problem cases have been eliminated," Dockery said. "But it is odd. I’ll tell the medics and see if anyone has any ideas."

But his sins had earned him yet another chewing out, this time at the captain’s hands.

"Ensign, Commander Dockery has had his chance at your backside—now it’s my turn. But first, let’s see if you understand what you did wrong—or rather, didn’t do right."

"Yes, sir. I knew about a problem, and did not keep Commander Dockery or you advised."

"Because—?"

"Because I thought I should gather more data, keep a record of incidents, before bother—before telling anyone else."

"I see. Serrano, there are several possible motives for that action, and I want a straight answer out of you. Were you trying to protect Chief Zuckerman’s reputation, or get yourself a bit of glory by bringing me a nice juicy bone?"

Barin hesitated before replying. "Sir, I think . . . I was confused at first. I was surprised when the other NCO told me about Zuckerman; my first thought was that he had something personal against Zuckerman. But when he said he’d reported it before and that a major had taken it seriously . . . I thought it might be a real problem. Except that medical hadn’t found anything. I didn’t know why the NCO had confided in me, in particular—it made me uncomfortable. So I thought I’d keep an eye out, and document anything I noticed—"

"And did you notice anything?"

"Not anything I could put a finger on, sir. There was less respect for Chief Zuckerman than I would expect to find among enlisted, but not enough to be insubordination. I noticed that he was not intervening in some situations where I’d have expected his influence. But he’d made only two actual errors that I’d documented—and even master chiefs are human. I didn’t want to go around asking questions—he deserved better than that—"

"Wait there. You are telling me you made the judgement—that you felt qualified to make the judgement—that Zuckerman ‘deserved better’ than your asking questions about him? Zuckerman liked you, that much is clear. Were you swayed by his favoritism to your family, or were you just out of your depth completely?"

"Sir, I know now that I was out of my depth, but I didn’t recognize that at the time."

"I see. And you thought you’d keep a quiet eye on him, document any problems, and bring your report to—exactly whom did you expect to bring this report to, assuming you came up with something?"

Under that cool gray gaze, Barin’s mind kept trying to blank out. But a lifetime’s experience gave him the right answer even in his panic. "To Chief Zuckerman’s commander in the chain, sir. Which would be Lieutenant Commander Orstein."

"That much is correct. And what did you expect to happen when you presented such a report?"

"Sir, I thought Commander Orstein would review it, perhaps make his own investigation, and then take whatever action he felt necessary."

"And it would be out of your hands?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did you think Orstein would do with you, the pup who dragged in this unsavory prize?"

"I . . . hadn’t thought about that, sir."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Sir, no one could be happy to find a master chief losing his . . . losing effectiveness, sir. Master chiefs are . . . special." That wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one he could think of.

"Yes, they are. So, if I read between the lines correctly, you figured Lieutenant Commander Orstein would chew you out and then—maybe—undertake his own investigation."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, Serrano, if you had found additional problems, are you certain you’d have risked that chewing out to report on Zuckerman?"

"Yes, sir!" Barin couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Well, that’s something. Let me reiterate what I’m sure Dockery told you: it is annoying for a junior to show no initiative and bother a senior with minor problems, but it is dangerous and—in the long run—disloyal for a junior to conceal a serious problem from a senior. If you had reported this sooner, Chief Zuckerman’s problems—whatever they are—could have been dealt with properly, in the chain of command, and I would not have been caught flat-footed and embarrassed. I presume you understand this, and I presume you won’t do it again. If you do, the trouble you’re in now will be as a spark compared to a nuclear explosion. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."