Heris Serrano

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Apparently Brun was in the middle of a battle for Xavier—which means that Cecelia and Heris Serrano were, too. And the admiral wants to speak to me . . . says we must talk. Brun's on her ship, I gather. I don't like that at all."

  Xavier System, aboard the Vigilance

  "You have to do something," Cecelia said. Heris had run out of things to say in answer; she just looked at Cecelia and waited. "You have to," Cecelia went on. "Surely you care!"

  "Of course I care," Heris said. "But surely you see my problem. I can't just leave—"

  "Why not? You're not in the military anymore. You're a civilian; you assured me all that talk about a secret mission was just something you made up in an emergency. You can just walk away, take my—your—yacht, and go find out what's wrong."

  "Lady Cecelia, it's not that simple. I am . . . not free to go."

  "You mean you don't want to. It's more fun to play soldier—"

  Heris's temper snapped. "I was not playing, Lady Cecelia; people died, in battle and as a direct result of my actions. Whatever you think about the military, you personally and everyone you know on Xavier would be dead without us. If you want to talk playing, how about a grown woman so fixated on horses that she can't tell a game from war?" The moment the words were out she would have snatched them back, but entropy prevailed. Cecelia glared, speechless . . . but only, Heris was sure, for a moment.

  "If I could interrupt." That was a voice more used to command than either of theirs. Heris glanced up and saw her aunt, Admiral Serrano, in the doorway. She started to stand, but the admiral waved her down. "At ease, Captain. I have things to say to both of you." Cecelia had whirled, still angry and ready to attack, but Vida Serrano seemed not to notice as she came in and took the other chair across Heris's desk. "Lady Cecelia," she began, "I am glad to finally meet the person my niece so respected."

  Cecelia's expression stiffened even more. "Not much respect, if you ask me."

  "As a matter of fact, I'm not asking. I'm commenting on an observation anyone might make. Now—I understand you've had an upsetting communication from a relative on Patchcock. I was unaware that your family had interests there."

  "We don't," Cecelia said. Her face flushed unbecomingly as her anger shifted focus. "I have no idea what Ronnie is doing there, or why Raffa is with him—they had both agreed to her parents' request that they avoid each other for a while. But I don't see what business it is of yours."

  Admiral Serrano ran one hand over her short silver hair. "As the commander of this battle group, I have a natural interest in anyone trying to suborn one of my commanders—"

  "Suborn!" said Cecelia.

  "Commanders!" said Heris. Admiral Serrano's lips twitched.

  "The two of you are a well-matched pair. Lady Cecelia: by whatever means she obtained it, Captain Serrano now commands an R.S.S. cruiser. She commanded it in battle, against an enemy of the Familias trying to invade. Now that I'm here, and since I outrank her, I am in command—and she is one of my subordinates."

  "I see that," Cecelia said irritably, "but she's not really military anymore. She's a civilian. She assured me—"

  Admiral Serrano tilted her head slightly. Heris felt a pang of sympathy for Cecelia . . . everyone in the Fleet knew what that head tilt meant, the final pause before the prey was impaled. "Lady Cecelia, you tell me: if you put a cow's horns on a horse and hung a placard with COW on it, would that make the horse into a cow?"

  "Of course not!"

  "Very good." Admiral Serrano might have been praising a slow student in some class. "Captain Serrano was bred and trained as a military commander. She functioned as a military commander for twenty-odd years. Do you really think a couple of years running your yacht could change what she is?"

  "But I like her," Cecelia said. "And I don't—"

  "Like the military. Sorry about that. It's always happening, you know—people who think they know what we're like, and then actually meet one of us and discover we're human."

  "You're patronizing me," Cecelia said. "I'm not as young as I look."

  Admiral Serrano laughed. "I know that. Regulations forbid us to wear them, but . . . I was one of the first multiple Rejuvenants in the Familias. I would have three rings. A volunteer to study the effects, in fact. I would bet our birthdays aren't that far apart."

  "You look older," Cecelia said.

  "Admirals must have a certain maturity of presence," Admiral Serrano said. "I chose to combine other therapies with my rejuvenations, so that I look old enough to scare young cadets, and can still outrun most field-grade officers." Admiral Serrano waited to see if Cecelia would comment, but she didn't. The admiral went on. "You should know that I, too, have had communications about Patchcock. Lord Thornbuckle is concerned about the situation there. He wanted Captain Serrano to take the yacht and find out what's happening to the young people."

  "That's what I said—she should go, and—"

  "Lady Cecelia, I can't leave without—"

  The admiral raised her hand, a teacher to unruly children, and they both fell silent.

  "You want her to go to Patchcock and she won't; she correctly considers herself under orders . . . there's a solution, you know."

  Heris realized what her aunt meant a long moment before Cecelia did. Cecelia looked up, startled. "You mean . . . you?"

  Admiral Serrano shrugged. "I can order her—" She turned to Heris, "And you had better go, if I do."

  "If? Why if? Why not just do it?" Cecelia looked ready to leap out of her seat. Admiral Serrano turned to Heris.

  "Captain—what would your orders be, if you were the admiral?"

  "I wouldn't send R.S.S. warships to Patchcock," Heris said promptly. "It's likely to make things worse."

  "So?"

  "So . . . if I could insert a small, nonthreatening civilian ship, with some specialists to . . . find out what's happened, rescue personnel if necessary—" If they weren't already dead.

  "Good choices. I was going to relieve you as captain of the Vigilance anyway—you don't need to waste your time shepherding her to a repair dock. Despite is too big for this job, and too small for anything else. You're not officially on the List, even if you are . . . mmm . . . tucked away in a corner of the database. I don't have to notify anyone at Personnel about your transfer. Whom do you want on that yacht?"

  "You want me to go on Sweet Delight?"

  "It's the right ship—small, fast, civilian, and full of specialists—or it will be when you select the right crew for this. Covert, remember."

  "Yes . . . sir." Was this really an order? Would she really have the authority to pull out the crew she wanted?

  "Actually this will simplify things for me," the admiral went on. "I have some loose ends to tidy before you come back in the Regs—assuming that's what you want—?" She looked at Heris, and nodded before Heris could get the words out. "Yes—I thought so. It's almost time—this little chore will fit in nicely."

  "I'm coming," Cecelia said, with a touch of defiance, as if she expected to be refused.

  "Of course," the admiral said. "It's your ship and your nephew. Now about that girl—"

  "She stays," Lady Cecelia and Heris said together. The admiral raised her brows.

  "That's what her father said. What's your reason?"

  "She's stretched her luck well past its elastic limit," Heris said. "And she's too valuable as a hostage. She'll be happy enough here if you let her soak up practical matters from your specialists."

  "She already is," Admiral Serrano said. "When her father wanted to speak to her, she was down in Environmental, learning to tear down a scrubber and fascinating the Chief at the same time. This afternoon, she was deep in the hull specifications for minesweepers. I hope I'll still be in command of this wave when you've finished on Patchcock." She didn't sound worried. Heris suspected that she'd enjoy Brun as much as the young woman would enjoy a few weeks aboard the flagship.

  "Well, then," Cecelia said. "If that's decided, I'll go back to Sweet Deligh
t. . . . I expect you two have a lot to talk about." She nodded to Admiral Serrano; Heris called someone to escort her back to the other ship.

  "We do need to talk," Admiral Serrano said. "But this isn't the best time. I'll see you after Patchcock."

  "There'll have to be a Board," Heris murmured. The thought—the word—sent shivers down her spine.

  "Of course." Her aunt looked at her. "It worries you? It shouldn't. There's ample evidence—just in what you've sent me so far, and in what Suiza sent from Despite—to support your actions. Not even counting the battle itself. You're in no danger, Heris, not this time. You've done well." She paused, then went on. "You're coming home, Heris. Back where you belong, back with those who love you."

  But did they? She could not doubt her aunt, not faced with the warmth in those eyes. But others . . . she would have to know why they had ignored her before. She kept herself busy the rest of that day, visiting the sickbay, arranging the change of command, choosing the crew to go with her in the yacht.

  She was choosing the crew for Patchcock—the same familiar faces: Oblo, Meharry, Ginese, Koutsoudas, Petris. Petris. She looked at him with no less affection than before, yet it was different. How many days had it been . . . and she hadn't missed that part, not really.

  When all the transfers had been done, when she was back on the familiar (but tiny!) bridge of Sweet Delight, with the familiar crew around her and Lady Cecelia simmering in her suite like a kettle on the hearth, she realized that the trip to Patchcock would not be peaceful for one person at least.

  "I've missed you," he said, slipping into bed beside her. He was warm and smooth, the shape her hands had wanted without knowing it. And yet—even before Xavier, neither of them had taken up the many opportunities. She thought she knew what it meant for her; what did it mean for him?

  "I'm just not comfortable aboard ship," Heris said. She rolled her head sideways, facing what must be faced, but Petris merely looked thoughtful.

  "I'm not either, if you want the truth of it. I love you; I loved you for years, and getting to be with you was wonderful. But—it doesn't feel right aboard ship, and it's not just the memory of those damnable cockroaches." Heris began to chuckle helplessly, and in a moment his mouth quirked. "Really. I swear."

  "I know." Her chuckles subsided. "But we do have a dilemma, especially if you feel the same way. I love you; I want to be around you. And I love being in space—"

  "Me, too," Petris said.

  "But not in bed in space." She frowned, hardly realizing it until his finger began smoothing her forehead.

  "We are grown-ups," Petris said. "We can take our pleasures serially instead of binging. It's fine with me if we put this part of our life aside when we're aboard. For one thing, we won't be waiting for some crisis to interrupt."

  "Thank you," Heris said. She sighed.

  "I almost wish—" Petris stopped that with a sudden lurch. "Sorry. Nothing."

  "Wish what?" Heris pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him. The sight of his brows, pulled together in a knot of concentration, almost undid the previous agreement.

  "Nothing we can change. Not about you, is what I mean."

  "Petris!"

  "It's just—we don't have anything to do. This little ship is a beauty, and it was fun fitting her out with some decent equipment and weaponry, but—we don't get to do anything with it. Vigilance, now—while I was scared out of my skull shift-and-shift, I felt needed. Competent."

  "I know." Heris rolled all the way over and buried her chin in the mat of black hair on his chest. "And that's why I'm going back in, Petris. And I want you to come back too."

  "I thought so." He took a deep breath that lifted her head to an uncomfortable angle. "Then we can't—"

  "Yes. We can. We're not going to waste what we do have. Either you'll end up with a commission from all this, or we'll simply use common sense—confine it to times we aren't aboard."

  "Is that an order, ma'am?" he asked.

  "Sir," she corrected, and set about undoing the pact they had just made.

  Later, before they were quite asleep, Petris said, "Lady Cecelia would have made a good admiral."

  "Mmm. I'm not sure. She might have been booted out down the line; she's got a difficult streak."

  "And you don't?" He tickled her extensively, but nothing came of it then but giggles. Finally Heris batted his hand away.

  "I admit it; I'm difficult too. But my difficultness is the kind Fleet recognizes and knows how to deal with. And so's yours. And we will work it out—for all of us—and that's a promise."

  "Fine with me," Petris said. "I trust you." She lay awake longer than he, stricken again by the weight of all those who trusted her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Patchcock System

  "I don't like it, letting Raffa go off by herself like this," Ronnie said. He slapped at a tickfly, and hit it, which left an itchy wet spot on his arm and a mess on his hand.

  "She'll be all right," George said. "She's inside, isn't she? Not out here being eaten up by these . . . things." He flapped the gray-green cloth hanging down from his hat and swung his arms in a sort of uncoordinated dance. He had draped himself in the recommended insect-proof veil for their trek along the shore, only to discover that tickflies could crawl up the arms . . . and once inside the veil, they couldn't get back out. Even satiated with blood, they still whined around inside the veil with annoying persistence.

  Ronnie looked seaward, where sullen waves lifted murky brown backs; they rolled sluggishly landward and slapped the crumbling shore with spiteful warm hands. Far out, a line of dirty white might mark the reefs he'd seen mentioned in the tourist brochure. Landward, the low boxy shapes of Twoville's monotonous architecture cast uninteresting shadows as square as the buildings. He hadn't seen the hotel, but in the transient workers' hostel, the cramped room smelled of disinfectant and the ventilation fans squeaked monotonously.

  "It's not exactly . . . exotic," he said. "Not even the planet itself."

  "No." George kicked at a mound of crumbly stuff, and jumped back as a horde of many-legged, shiny-backed things ran out. He backed up a couple of steps. "Look at that—what d'you suppose . . ."

  "Stingtails," said a voice. They both looked up, to find a tall, lean individual with a slouch hat and long, white, perfectly pointed moustaches grinning at them in a way that emphasized their ignorance. "If I were you," the man said, "I'd move farther away. Stingtails know the scent of their nest on the critter that kicked it—" George, who had been fascinated by the fast-moving swarm, backed up again and watched as the swarm continued to move toward him. When he shifted sideways, the front end followed his path, but the swarm kinked in the middle as some of the followers caught the scent and cut the corner.

  "Dammit!" George backed away faster. "Now what?"

  "Hop," the man advised. "Big hops. When you're twenty meters away, they'll lose track."

  George hopped, looking ridiculous with his veil bouncing up and down; Ronnie jogged along, keeping wide of the swarm just in case, and the stranger strolled at ease, hands in his pockets. When they halted again, George breathless and disheveled, Ronnie took a longer look at the stranger.

  Despite the old battered hat, with odd decorations stuck in its band (a tiny horseshoe? a fish-hook with feathers? a long, curling quill from some exotic bird? a blue rosette?), the man was otherwise tidily, even foppishly, dressed in crisp khaki slacks and shirt, the pleats pressed to a knife edge. A tiny pink flower in his buttonhole, a perfectly folded white handkerchief peeking from one pleated pocket. Stout low boots of fawn leather. And those moustaches . . . which matched bushy white eyebrows over bright blue eyes.

  "You boys must have let Marshall at the station tell you what to buy," he said. Ronnie would have been annoyed, but he was already hot, sweaty, and bug-bitten. "I can smell the Fly-B-Gone from here . . . but of course it doesn't repel tickflies. Marshall got it by mistake three years ago, and none of us will buy it—he has to foist it off on tourist
s." Another pause; Ronnie slapped at his neck, and missed that tickfly. "Not that we get many tourists," the old man said. "Certainly not your sort."

  "And what is our sort?" asked George, whose grumpiness always found voice.

  "Rich young idiots," the man said. "More money than sense. I mean, we'd heard the Royals were disbanding, letting loose a plague of your sort, but I thought Patchcock was too far away and too boring to attract any. . . ." His friendly smile mitigated, but did not negate, the sting of that. "And that veil will only trap the tickflies inside," he said to George. "Besides making you hotter."

  George tore off the veil and glared. "I know that. I was just about to take it off, when—"

  "When you kicked a stingtail nest. And now you're angry with me. I understand." Ronnie had the odd feeling that he did. In fact, he liked the old fellow, and he hoped George wouldn't say anything too rude.