P.D. 948
The Recruit
In Victorian Space, on the Planet Christchurch
The recruiting sergeant wasn’t sure what to make of her.
At twenty-seven, she was older than his usual recruits. Usually he had nervous eighteen year olds, fresh out of high school, clueless and looking for something they really weren’t sure of. Adventure. Excitement. Something other than the home they had grown up in. Sometimes they were miners in their early twenties, thick necked and dirt stained, looking to get off Christchurch and not having enough education to do anything else but join the Fleet. Other times the recruits were bored and restless, or in trouble.
Plus, she had some education. Gods of Our Mothers, she not only went through college, she actually had a master’s degree. Sgt. Martinez shook his head. A master’s degree. He had barely made it through high school. Why on earth would anyone with a master’s degree want to join the Fleet?
She sat still, looking at him. She was attractive, but hardly glamorous. Small, almost petite, with coffee skin, very dark eyes and black hair, all pretty much average for a woman born on Christchurch. But she held his gaze without looking away, showed no anxiety or discomfort. He almost had the impression that she was interviewing him, not the other way around.
He just wasn’t sure what to make of her.
Sergeant Martinez glanced at her application folder once more. “Says here you got a college degree,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes.” Nothing more, just “Yes.”
“What was your degree, Miss Tuttle?”
“History.”
“And what have you been doing for a living?”
Her mouth twitched then, a mere hint of a smile. “I’m a sales clerk in a furniture store. Or was, anyway.”
Martinez raised his eyebrows in question.
Tuttle shrugged. “Christchurch is not exactly at the heart of Victoria’s economic juggernaut, Sergeant. The furniture store closed and I was laid off.”
Martinez felt himself grow irritated. “So you can’t find a job and decided you might as well join the Fleet, is that it?”
She shook her head, her black hair swirling around her neck. “No, I had already decided I wanted to join, but my mother was still alive. She needed me to take care of her.”
“Fleet doesn’t have a lot of use for history majors, Miss Tuttle.”
Her black eyes fixed on him for several beats. “I would have thought I would be an attractive candidate, Sergeant.”
“You’re pretty small to be a soldier,” he said.
“I want to join the Fleet, Sergeant, not the Marines.” She looked at him appraisingly. “Anyway, I bet they said the same thing about you.”
Sgt. Martinez, all five feet one inch of him, blinked twice, then laughed out loud. “Yes, Miss Tuttle, they certainly did.” He laughed again. “They certainly did.”
She smiled for the first time. Her black eyes grew luminous with their shared mirth. Sgt. Martinez felt the force of her smile, felt a little tingle. Then she leaned forward, earnest and intense. “I want to join, Sergeant. I’m educated, single, no family ties. I’m smart and…” Unexpectedly, she faltered.
“And?” he queried.
She took a breath. “And…I want to serve something bigger than myself.”
Well, well. Just when you think they can’t surprise you anymore… Martinez drummed the table with his fingers. Then he stood and reached out a hand. She took it and he shook her hand. “Welcome to the Fleet, Miss Tuttle. I hope you are as happy with it as I think it will be with you.”
It wasn’t until later that he noticed her field of studies for the master’s degree: the History of Conflict. He thought for a few minutes, then took a pen and carefully put a check mark in the top right corner of her application. It was a sergeant-to-sergeant thing. Her applications papers became part of her personnel file and would go with her to the two-year training program on Aberdeen. The check mark meant, “Watch this one, she could be good.”
He didn’t use it often.