Free Emile and the Dutchman by Joel Rosenberg

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