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.”
The comm unit on the wall chimed. Foote told the video walls to be quiet, rose from his chair and answered. He turned to Silva. “Package at the Fleet Office, Silva,” he said. “Needs hand delivery. Take it, will you?”
“You’re first in the queue,” Silva said.
Irritation crossed Foote’s face. “Just go, will you, Silva?”
“The score’s tied two-all,” Silva complained, but he rose, buttoned his tunic, and headed for the door.
“Breath, Silva,” reminded Foote. He tossed Silva a small silver aerosol flask, and Silva gave his palate a shot of mint. Silva tossed the flask back to Foote, who pocketed it, and Silva departed.
“Do you make a point of easing life for your drunken friends?” Sula asked as Foote resumed his seat.
Foote was surprised. “Friends help each other out,” he said. “And as for drinking, you have to do something here to keep away the boredom. For myself, I’m thinking of taking up yachting.” A thought struck him. “Why don’t weboth take it up?” he asked. “You showed real skill capturing theMidnight Runner. I’m sure you’d do well.”
Sula shook her head. “I’m not interested.”
“But why not?” Foote urged. “You’ve won the silver flashes—surely you must have considered yachting. And the Fleet will encourage you, because it’ll improve your piloting.”
Sula felt a certain comfort in the fact that Foote hadn’t checked her family history. Her membership in the Peerage was genuine enough, for all that the Sula clan had no members other than herself. Her trust fund might support a modest apartment in the High City, but would hardly extend to a yacht.
She could simply tell Foote that she hadn’t got her inheritance yet, but for some reason, she didn’t want to. The less Jeremy Foote knew about her, the better.
“I spend too much time in small boats as it is,” Sula said. “Why ask for more?”
A red-haired cadet entered then and looked at Sula in surprise. “I saw you on vid this morning,” she said. “You salvaged theRunner. ”
Foote introduced Ruth Chatterji, who wanted to know if Lord Commander Enderby was as ferocious as rumor made out. Sula said helooked ferocious enough, but hadn’t behaved with any noticeable brutality when hanging the medal around her neck.
“So tell me what it was like onMidnight Runner,” Chatterji said. “Is it true that Blitsharts got an embolism and vomited up his lungs?”
Sula rose to her feet. “I’d better go. Thanks for the chat.”
