Phil wouldn't tell—an officer and a gentleman doesn't go out of his way to squeal on his comrades.
Besides, if Brubaker wanted to find something to punish Manny or me for, he would, regardless of whether or not we had violated a rule.
"Maybe there's an easier solution. Hey, Manny," I said idly. "How good are you with a knife? Think you could put a blade in the bugger's ten-ring?"
He chuckled thinly. "Actually, I can hit a flying sherry cork at twenty paces."
"Serious?"
"Close. But, as I understand it, the Navy would be likely to . . . frown on our killing the pig."
True. Our actual policy was to keep our noses clean enough to avoid trouble from Tac officers and benign upperclassmen, but not to bother doing anything to avoid the attentions of Brubaker and the few other uppers who made a hobby of finding new and interesting ways to harass plebes in general and us in particular.
Ortega frowned. "I repeat: I will stay, if you ask me."
"No need," Manny said, slipping back into his thick Castilian accent. "I get the feeling that it isn't you that Brubaker wants." He shrugged. "You're not a ricon, after all."
"Or a smartass," I put in, taking out my ruler and measuring the placement of my compboard. Its edge was precisely six centimeters from the edge of another one of the Navy's contradictions; the high-tech compboard and a battered but decent voicewriter sat on an unpowered wooden desk.
Ortega finished rolling up and tying his mattress, then hoisted it to his shoulder with one hand and picked up one of his Val-paks with the other. Manny and I each grabbed one with our left hands, leaving our right hands free for saluting.
I swung the door open and stepped out into the hall. It was 2030 or so, well into the study hour. Down the immaculate white hall, each door was ajar at precisely forty-five degrees, plebes all sitting at their desks and studying, their commitment aided by the two guards, one at each end of the hall.
The walls were whitewashed wood: I'd whitewashed them myself, once each weekend in place of Sunday liberty. Even the cracks between the floor panels were clean—that was Brubaker's usual assignment to Manny and his toothbrush. Nice fellow, Brubaker.
We walked down the hall three abreast, pausing at the guard table to drop our burdens to the floor, come to attention, and salute.
The guard was a senior cadet sergeant named Morphy. Not quite as much of a jerk as the rest, but not a prince among men, either. He had a certain affection for a phrase that I don't particularly enjoy hearing:
"Puke it out, lady," he said, clearly bored.
I was senior, for the moment; my most recent full demerit was three days old. That's sort of like being senior by being the one busted first—it doesn't exactly get you the red-carpet treatment.
"Sir. Plebes von du Mark, Curdova, and Ortega requesting permission to leave the floor. Purpose: to move Plebe Ortega's belongings down to his new billet on the fifth floor. Sir."
"The cow, Mister—" He caught himself. "Never mind, Mark. Leave it be. Sure, sure, permission granted." He scribbled out a pass. "Take a couple of hours—that might keep you out of Brubaker's way for a while. Asshole," he snorted.
While Brubaker's rank was higher than Morphy's, Morphy was a senior, which put him beyond Brubaker's authority in all but strictly line-of-duty situations.
Morphy shook his head. "Transferred in with soph status last year. No fucking plebe year for him, but he's got to—never mind. Tell me, any idea why he's got it in for you in particular?"
"Sir, no, sir. Unless it's because I'm a rich sonofabitch and a know-everything smartass and barracks lawyer to boot, sir."
Morphy's eyes twinkled. "I guess that could be it. Oh—and you can forget about your usual way of spending Sunday leave this weekend. On your way back, you might want to check out the posting for the next survival drop."
I didn't say anything.
He sighed again. "Okay, you've probably got a question—puke it
Besides, if Brubaker wanted to find something to punish Manny or me for, he would, regardless of whether or not we had violated a rule.
"Maybe there's an easier solution. Hey, Manny," I said idly. "How good are you with a knife? Think you could put a blade in the bugger's ten-ring?"
He chuckled thinly. "Actually, I can hit a flying sherry cork at twenty paces."
"Serious?"
"Close. But, as I understand it, the Navy would be likely to . . . frown on our killing the pig."
True. Our actual policy was to keep our noses clean enough to avoid trouble from Tac officers and benign upperclassmen, but not to bother doing anything to avoid the attentions of Brubaker and the few other uppers who made a hobby of finding new and interesting ways to harass plebes in general and us in particular.
Ortega frowned. "I repeat: I will stay, if you ask me."
"No need," Manny said, slipping back into his thick Castilian accent. "I get the feeling that it isn't you that Brubaker wants." He shrugged. "You're not a ricon, after all."
"Or a smartass," I put in, taking out my ruler and measuring the placement of my compboard. Its edge was precisely six centimeters from the edge of another one of the Navy's contradictions; the high-tech compboard and a battered but decent voicewriter sat on an unpowered wooden desk.
Ortega finished rolling up and tying his mattress, then hoisted it to his shoulder with one hand and picked up one of his Val-paks with the other. Manny and I each grabbed one with our left hands, leaving our right hands free for saluting.
I swung the door open and stepped out into the hall. It was 2030 or so, well into the study hour. Down the immaculate white hall, each door was ajar at precisely forty-five degrees, plebes all sitting at their desks and studying, their commitment aided by the two guards, one at each end of the hall.
The walls were whitewashed wood: I'd whitewashed them myself, once each weekend in place of Sunday liberty. Even the cracks between the floor panels were clean—that was Brubaker's usual assignment to Manny and his toothbrush. Nice fellow, Brubaker.
We walked down the hall three abreast, pausing at the guard table to drop our burdens to the floor, come to attention, and salute.
The guard was a senior cadet sergeant named Morphy. Not quite as much of a jerk as the rest, but not a prince among men, either. He had a certain affection for a phrase that I don't particularly enjoy hearing:
"Puke it out, lady," he said, clearly bored.
I was senior, for the moment; my most recent full demerit was three days old. That's sort of like being senior by being the one busted first—it doesn't exactly get you the red-carpet treatment.
"Sir. Plebes von du Mark, Curdova, and Ortega requesting permission to leave the floor. Purpose: to move Plebe Ortega's belongings down to his new billet on the fifth floor. Sir."
"The cow, Mister—" He caught himself. "Never mind, Mark. Leave it be. Sure, sure, permission granted." He scribbled out a pass. "Take a couple of hours—that might keep you out of Brubaker's way for a while. Asshole," he snorted.
While Brubaker's rank was higher than Morphy's, Morphy was a senior, which put him beyond Brubaker's authority in all but strictly line-of-duty situations.
Morphy shook his head. "Transferred in with soph status last year. No fucking plebe year for him, but he's got to—never mind. Tell me, any idea why he's got it in for you in particular?"
"Sir, no, sir. Unless it's because I'm a rich sonofabitch and a know-everything smartass and barracks lawyer to boot, sir."
Morphy's eyes twinkled. "I guess that could be it. Oh—and you can forget about your usual way of spending Sunday leave this weekend. On your way back, you might want to check out the posting for the next survival drop."
I didn't say anything.
He sighed again. "Okay, you've probably got a question—puke it
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