Emile and the Dutchman (7 page)

VII

There really isn't much that's worse than thirst, particularly when you have a little bit of water. You always have to decide: do I drink it now, or do I wait a minute? An hour?

Please don't tell me about how necessity is the mother of invention—I couldn't think clearly; the only thing running through my mind was how good the hot water in my canteen would taste.

Our canteens contained about a liter each—maybe enough for two days—and that wasn't going to make it.

But moving around would make us sweat more, and that would be the end. We just sat there, talking with each other, trying to figure out how we could get our hands on Brubaker's water.

And we just got thirstier, the words bouncing around in my head.

—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—

For a whole day.

The Dutchman went over to the server and punched me a beer, without having been asked. I popped the top and drained it. Reliving it was thirsty-making.

"Sounds pretty tough, Emmy."

"Emile. And yes, sir, it was. What would you have done, if you were in that kind of spot?"

"And didn't know the right way?"

"Yes, sir."

"I would have walked up to Brubaker, tried to get him to drop his guard for a second, and then I would have snapped my instep into his crotch, hoping to give him a new necktie. That what you did?"

"Not quite. I was a bit more creative."

It hit me like a thunderbolt. I'd been thinking of it the wrong way, putting the emphasis on the wrong word. No, no, not "We didn't know
how
to improvise a source of water," but "
We
didn't know how to improvise a source of water."

Got it. I'll show you an improvised water source.
I turned to Manny. "You any good with a survival knife?"

He smiled at me out of cracked lips. "Champagne . . . cork."

I passed him my knife. "Manuel," I whispered, "I want you to get his water. Use this one as a spare."

"I can't get it—"

"No, not take it. Two throws: open up his jug."

I didn't wait for an answer. I forced myself to my feet and walked out into the hot sun.

"Hey, Brubaker."

Brubaker poked his head out of his lean-to. "Give me fifty, plebe. The first word out of your mouth had better be—"

"Stuff it, scumbag."

That got him angry—he lunged out into the daylight, his pack firmly on his back.

Manny's knife
thwock
ed firmly into his pack. For a moment, I thought he had missed the water container and had stuck the knife in something else. But then the knife fell to the sand, a stream of water following it.

Brubaker's first reaction was the natural one: he quickly shrugged out of his pack and pulled the jug out, obviously intending to improvise a patch.

That's when I moved: I tackled the bastard, pulling his wiregun out of his belt as I rolled clear.

I snapped the safety off and caught Brubaker in the sights for a moment before I settled for his leaking waterjug.

"Stand back, Brubaker."

I emptied the damn thing into his waterjug, then ejected the clip, thought about it for a moment, and stuck the empty wiregun into my belt.

Manny stood beside me, the spare knife in one hand, his canteen in the other. "We understand it is possible to improvise a water source, Señor Brubaker," he said. "We strongly suggest that you go ahead." He gave what he always called—I don't know why—his Frito Bandito smile. "Or you can try to take this away from me."

I sat back and drained the last of my coffee. "Of course, the method was easy, once he showed it to us. You dig a round, shallow pit, about two meters across, and put your cup with one end of the tubing stuck in it into the center, then cover it with a clear piece of plastic, and weight down the edges. Then—"

"Then the sun shines through the plastic and bakes traces of water out of even the driest sands, and the water condenses on the plastic, runs down into the cup, and you use the tube like a straw to sip it. And you make a point of urinating right near the water trap, or cutting down cacti, chopping them up, and throwing the pieces under the plastic—I know all this stuff, Emmy. I take it you survived the rest of the drop."

"Sure. We made it to the end, and were picked up by chopper. And were immediately placed under arrest. . . ."

VIII

The commandant's voice was gentle, almost affectionate. "At ease, Mister von du Mark, Mister Curdova. Please, be seated." He gestured at the guards. "You can wait outside." He waited until they had left before offering us coffee.

We both accepted. Our short time in the guardhouse had persuaded us that this was likely to be the last time either of us would get filtercone coffee in a long while. Although maybe Papa or Manny's father could get us a hotshot civilian lawyer—

No. We were going to face a court-martial, not a civilian court. The Navy officers would want us to be guilty, and that would be that.

"You know," Admiral Braithwaite said, "there's a purpose to everything we do here. Mmm, but maybe you didn't know that, Mister von du Mark?"

"Sir?"

"Mister Curdova?"

"Sir, I don't understand. You were saying that Brubaker was right to try to kill us, sir?"

"I doubt that the court will think he was really trying to kill you, Mister Curdova. A ship, gentlemen, is a machine, and so, to a certain extent, is its crew. We can't have officers or men who choose to disobey lawful orders of their superiors—or who attack them." He sipped his coffee. "That kind of mentality is one that admissions testing is supposed to weed out, before even a provisional appointment is made. Although . . ." He let his voice trail off into a deep sigh. "Sometimes we do end up with disappointments like the two of you."

Manny started to speak up, but I motioned him to silence. My Uncle Horst is a criminal lawyer, and he's often said that many of his clients have made it worse on themselves by opening up their mouths, but that he's never heard of anyone making it worse by keeping quiet.

"Very good." Braithwaite eyed me levelly, a trace of amusement around the corners of his eyes. "Now, I've spoken with Cadet Brubaker, and made a suggestion to him. One of which he seems to approve."

He waited for us to respond, and when we sat there silently, went on, "I've suggested that you plead guilty to refusing to obey lawful orders and take two years' hard labor, and a BCD. Either that, or . . ."

"Or, sir?"

"I have your attention, do I, Mister von du Mark? Good. Frankly, I don't like any of this. I don't like it
at all
; it's a blot on the Academy for this to have happened in the first place. And, just between the three of us, I think Cadet Brubaker probably pushed you to the breaking point."

"But—"

"But that doesn't excuse assaulting a superior officer, Mister von du Mark. Not at all. That
A
was guilty of inciting to riot isn't a defense for
B
to the charge of rioting. Check your codes, gentlemen.

"I can't just ignore it and keep you two around, not after what you've done. And if I just let you resign, the next time some plebe is unhappy about being harassed by an upperclassman, he's going to say, To hell with it, resigning wouldn't be so bad,' and take a poke at him. On the other hand . . ."

"Yes, sir?"

"If you were to transfer to the Contact Service Academy, it's entirely possible that all of your records would be lost in transit. Think about it."

"How long do we have?"

"Thirty seconds." He tapped a fingernail on two flimsies. "Sign those, or I'll call the guards and have you hauled away."

* * *

Fifteen hours later, we were checking in at Alton. The duty officer had told us to go right to our room and settle in, and we would handle the details in the morning.

Our billet was in the old wing of Wingate Hall. As we were walking up the stone steps an empty beer bulb flew out of the door and hit me square in the chest.

It was quickly followed by a cadet captain in an immaculately pressed set of ODs.

I looked at Manny, and he looked at me; he gave the kind of expansive shrug that you're not allowed to use unless you've got sufficient Latin blood.

Here we go again,
I thought, nodding. We dropped our bags and came to attention.

The cadet captain wrinkled up his smooth face. "What the—you the two pieces of new meat?" He shook his head, slowly.

"Sir. Yes, sir."

"My name is Jim Moriarty, not sir—outside of duty hours. And before you ask, yes, they call me Professor—outside of duty hours," he said, stooping to pick up my bag.
"Hey, Julio
—the new suckers are here. Get your ass out here and lend a hand."

"Right away," sounded from inside the building.

He looked from me to Manny, and then back to me. "And bring two beers. These poor bastards look like they can use them."

I almost cried.

IX

"I don't need to hear about Alton. I graduated from Hell High, remember? I know all about shovel-the-shit on duty, have-a-beer off."

"Right." I shrugged. "Well, in any case, that's how it happened."

The Dutchman snickered. "That's not quite the way it happened." He nodded smugly. "I didn't think I could see you enlisting voluntarily in the Service. . . ."

It was my turn to snicker. "Major, I don't know if you've noticed, but Naval officers live a nice, clean life. They don't—"

"Shuddup. More specifically, Naval cadets—even ones that psych testing has indicated
might
make decent Contact Service officers—don't volunteer for transfer to the Service—"

"Damn straight."

"—unless they get a bit of persuasion." Norfeldt took the compboard off his lap and handed it to me. My eye quickly scanned down to the bottom.

. . . despite more difficulty than this officer had expected with the assistance of Admiral Braithwaite, said officer was able to secure voluntary transfers from Cadets von du Mark and Curdova.

At present, there are no further cadets at the Naval Academy whose psych profiles suggest that they would be more appropriate to the Service; accordingly, this officer hereby suggests and requests that he be relieved of his recruitment duties and detailed back to a Contact Team.

Respectfully submitted,

Ernest Brubaker,

First Lieutenant TWCS

(detailed RECRUITMENT)

"Son of a
bitch
! "

The Dutchman just chuckled. "Welcome to the real world, Emmy."