The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Winter rains had finally come to the main Fleet base at Copper Mountain, one front after another dumping snow on the higher elevations and a cold, stinging rain lower down. Q-town glittered in the lights of celebrating bars and restaurants and stores, streets freshly swept by another squall of rain and a bitter wind that rushed people off the street and into shelter.

  Inside Diamond Sim's, the main room was crowded with men and women in Fleet uniforms: almost all the tables were full, with a line of people at the bar.

  "Just what we need," Oblo said, "a politician horning in on our celebration. By the time our officers get here, we'll all be falling on the floor." Fleet personnel in and around Copper Mountain had chosen this bar for a joint celebration. Crowded as it already was, it would get worse—standing room only by the time they came to the toasts.

  "The Speaker isn't just any politician."

  "Politicians are politicians," Oblo said. It was not his first mug that stood half empty on the table at his elbow. Methlin Meharry, across from him, shook her head. Her younger brother Gelan sat beside her, newly promoted and decorated for his part in defeating the mutiny. He was still a bit stiff with her shipmates.

  At one end of the long bar, a group of civilians clustered around a balding older man in a ridiculous yellow leather jacket like a costume out of a play.

  "Like him," Oblo said, gesturing with his mug. "What's he doing here, dressed like that? Is this a costume party, or a proper wake?"

  "He saved me," Gelan said, leaning forward. "He's a scientist—and he and the others stole a troop carrier from the mutineers to get the secret stuff from the weapons research lab on Stack Three. They've earned their night out."

  "If you say so," Oblo said.

  "Who's the redhead?" asked Methlin.

  "Ensign Pardalt. She's another one that was on the plane that picked me up, and she was the professor's bodyguard. I heard from the rest of them that she saved his life. Besides that, she put together some kind of signalling device that put the word out about the mutiny."

  "She did that? Where's she from? What's her specialty?"

  "Xavier. Got a Fleet scholarship after that. She's a junior instructor here."

  "Waste of talent," Oblo said. "She sounds like another Suiza."

  "Prettier," Methlin said.

  "Careful," Oblo said, nodding to a young officer a table away. "Young Serrano won't like to hear that."

  "Young Serrano won't even notice," Methlin said. "He's far too involved. She's a looker, Ensign Pardalt. And that fat old man knows it."

  "He's that kind, then?"

  "No . . . I'd say he's using her honey to bait his trap for the people he wants to talk to. Oh, he'll flirt, but my guess is he's thoroughly attached elsewhere."

  The outer door opened again, and a new group stood blinking rain out of their eyes. Oblo, facing the door, raised a cheer. "There she is! Cap'n—over here!" But there was another cheer, this time bringing the Serrano table to its feet: "Suiza! Suiza!"

  Heris Serrano and Esmay Suiza, side by side, came into the room, and behind them was a phalanx of Serrano admirals around a blonde woman in civilian dress and a redhead in uniform.

  Oblo gaped. "What?" said Meharry.

  "It's—Brun," he said. "Brun Meager-Thornbuckle. She's—it must be she's on the staff, or something . . . and Lady Cecelia."

  Methlin turned to look. "By—it is. And—Oblo, look—Heris has her stars!"

  "Fff . . . and they didn't ask us to the ceremony."

  The Serrano Admiralty, now increased by one, created a wave of silence that flowed from the nearest tables to the far corners, so that the words of the last speaker, an ensign explaining how he'd won a battle, rang far louder than he'd intended: "And then the exec said if I hadn't been there and remembered to shut the ARTI valve, he didn't know what might have happened, but it wouldn't have been good . . ." His voice trailed away as he craned around to see why silence had fallen.

  One of the Serrano Admiralty—a tall, hawk-faced man with a scar from cheek to chin, spoke into the silence. "An ARTI valve? How big was the hole in the line?"

  The youngster was on his feet, gulping. "A—a—only a pinhole, sir, they found afterwards."

  "Well, then, if you hadn't shut it off, you'd have had very high pressure fluid shooting out and slicing things. Like any of your shipmates in the way."

  The young man said no more. Admiral Vida Serrano stepped forward. "We ask your courtesy—may we join you?"

  "Certainly, sirs." That was Sim, whose hoverchair had the ability to get through spaces difficult for those afoot. "You're most welcome." He cocked his head at Heris. "Are we celebrating a promotion as well?"

  "Yes," one of the senior admirals said. "We lost an admiral minor, in Arash Livadhi; we decided we needed another one."

  "Congratulations," Sim said.

  Heris handed over her credit cube. "The traditional," she said.

  "Right, and thank you, Admiral."

  When the group moved forward, into the room, Brun lagged behind. She faced the scarred man in the hoverchair squarely. "You told me I had much to learn," she said. "You were right."

  "I heard," he said. "I was sorry I'd been so rough with you, seeing what came to you after."

  "No . . . you were right at the time, and I needed to hear it. Too bad I didn't learn sooner. Men died because of it." She fished in her bag. "This is a piece of the yacht I was on when I was captured, where my father's men died defending me. Would it—could you possibly—keep it here?"

  "I'd be honored," he said. "Do you have their names?"

  "Yes—here's a cube that has their names, and pictures, and all for your database. They're worth remembering."

  "Everyone is, sera."

  "Yes. I know that now."

  "I believe you do." His glance, once so challenging, softened. "You're welcome here, sera. You qualify on all counts."

  She felt the heat in her face, but met his eyes steadily. "Thank you. I'll do my best to stay qualified."

  "I believe you will." He hefted the fragments she'd given him. "Now—go join your friends; it's a pleasure to have you back."

  Brun edged between the crowded tables to reach the Serrano crowd, just in time to see Barin and Esmay in a clinch that brought wolf whistles from half the room. A pang struck her: she had never yet loved anyone like that, and she didn't know if she ever would. The fashion-critical side of her mind wanted to carp that Esmay badly needed a new cut again—or something—her hair was still so short there wasn't room for much styling. But she knew that didn't matter to Esmay or Barin or anyone else in the room. Lovers reunited, heroes at the top of their form . . . she glanced at Heris, who was not reunited with her love. But Heris was grinning at them. "What a pair! One sight of each other and you lose all professional decorum."

  Esmay turned. "Professional decorum is for ships, sir. This is a bar."

  Everyone laughed, including Heris. "Esmay, you're going to suit this family just fine."

  "Esmay, I'm so sorry I caused you all that trouble," Vida said. "Old admirals should never be annoyed and then bored; they will get into trouble."

  "About the history—"

  "That's for historians," Vida said firmly. "Yes, it needs to be studied and known, but there's a time to give up the question of who's to blame, and the quarrels and the shooting, and get on to what we're going to do now. In my view, what we do now is give you and Barin a proper wedding, with a reception where we—your family and ours and as many friends as we can pack together—can all eat and drink and tell stories."

  "Hear! Hear!" came shouts from tables who weren't even sure what the issue was, but heard "eat and drink and tell stories" clearly.

  At that moment, serving doors opened, and waiters began passing platters of food hand to hand, from the back of the room to the front, until the tables filled with food.

  "You didn't mean now!" Esmay said to Vida.

  "No—your family isn't here. This is j
ust Heris's promotion party. First she feeds us, then she gets us drunk—"

  "If I can," Heris said. "If the credit holds out."

  "Consider it a rehearsal," Sabado said, leering at Esmay. "Gives you some idea how it's going to be for your family to host the reception."

  "Not a problem," Esmay said, "if you'll come to Altiplano. We're good at feasts, and we have plenty of room."

  "You picked a brave one, Barin," Sabado said.

  "I know," Barin said. "But that's not the only reason—" Esmay turned red, and the others roared. "But it's one reason," he said, above the laughter. In Esmay's ear he said, "They're impossible. They're determined to embarrass us."

  "Blushes won't kill me," Esmay said. "I'm not going to run from them."

  "Good. Have I told you how proud I am of you—catching Livadhi like that?"

  "I didn't do it alone—" Esmay began.

  Barin snorted. "Esmaya, don't start that. Of course you didn't go paddling after him bare-naked and alone through interstellar space—"

  She giggled, surprising herself.

  "But you listened—you understood—you took action."

  "I had to."

  "Yes. Why I love you. You do the hard things you have to do, always. I can trust you for it."

  She hugged him again. "And you—I heard about you, too. I was so worried—"

  "I was scared," Barin said. "Then I was too busy to be scared." He wasn't scared or jealous either one, he realized. He glanced over to the bar, caught the professor's eye, and nodded.

  Cecelia had not hesitated; whatever the others might think, she had no concern about being unwelcome. She didn't know all the Serranos, but she knew Oblo and Meharry. She made her way to their table. Oblo heaved himself up, moved the line of people to his right with a glare, then moved his chair and offered it to her. He crouched beside her in the space he'd made.

  "Lady Cecelia, ma'am, what are you doing wearing a Fleet uniform with stars on? You can't make me believe they made you an admiral."

  "Not . . . exactly." Cecelia grinned. Oblo was going to like this story. "Remember back on Xavier, when that young lieutenant on Sweet Delight thought I must be an officer in covert ops?"

  "Yes . . ."

  "Well, Miranda and I were captured by the mutineers—"

  "What?!"

  "Are you all right, milady?" Meharry asked.

  "I'm fine. Miranda's dead. Let me tell you—"

  "'Scuse me, may I join you?" Cecelia looked up to see Chief Jones, with a mug already in hand.

  "Of course!" she said. "You can help me tell this—you know Oblo Vissisuan, don't you? And Methlin Meharry?"

  "I've heard," Jones said. "Heris Serrano's crew, right? And you survived a takeaway with that Livadhi admiral minor?"

  "'Sright," Oblo said. "You helped out Lady Cecelia, did you?"

  "She broke us out of the brig," Jones said. "Go on, tell them. That bit's your story."

  The whole table was leaning forward, straining to hear, when Cecelia got to the critical part with the mop handles; someone started to laugh and choked it off.

  "Then," Jones put in, "these two dragged the dead man back to use his finger on the lock to get us out."

  "So how'd you get off the ship?" Meharry asked. "Bonar Tighe—where'd they put the brig on that model? Didn't it still have the old combat control center mucking up the design?"

  "Right. What we did was break into the damage control lockers and start improvising."

  A moment of relative silence at their table, while people retrieved their own memories of what equipment could be found in damage control lockers. Before they could start talking, Jones went on. Cecelia admired her gift for storytelling; she knew just how to set the story up. It sounded better this way, in a roomful of friendly people, with all the noise around them. Jones held them spellbound, all the way to, "And there she was, breaking off sensor petals and tossing them away, chanting They kill us . . . they kill us not . . ."

  "And then I got tied up in tangleweb," Cecelia said, "and had to be handled like a holiday parcel."

  "Yeah, but the uniform," Oblo said. "Not that I'm fussy or anything, you know me, but—" He touched the star on her shoulder. "That's real."

  "That's your Heris," Cecelia said. "She needed a . . . er . . . bit more authority than she had. So . . . she suggested it. Jones here coached me."

  "She had the command presence already, when she wanted it," Jones said. "All we had to do was get her to quit talking about everything in terms of horses."

  "It's my cover," Cecelia said.

  "When did they promote her?" Oblo jerked his head towards Heris. "Why didn't she tell us?"

  "As for when, about twenty minutes ago, over at the headquarters of the school. As for why no crowd, she knew you were already over here, everyone she cared about, and even for a Serrano getting her star, they can't do it in a bar. She was annoyed."

  "That sounds like her," Oblo said. "She knows how it's supposed to be."

  Cecelia looked at Methlin Meharry, and the young man beside her . . . "Is that a relative of yours?"

  "My baby brother," Meharry said. "Gelan. He was here when it started. He killed Bacarion."

  "Who?"

  "She'd taken over the prison, the one where they had me and Oblo. If he'd listened to his big sister, he wouldn't have gotten into that mess, but at least he remembered what to do about it."

  Gelan turned red. "Methi—"

  "Methi," Cecelia said. "Is that your nickname?" She waited for the explosion that seemed to be brewing.

  "Even I don't call her that," Oblo said, in a tone of spurious virtue.

  "See what you've done?" Methlin thumped her brother on the head. "Troublemaking scamp." But she was grinning, the dangerous glint hiding again in those sleepy green eyes.

  Heris leaned over Cecelia suddenly. "Methlin, good—you found your brother. I've heard good things about you, young man. Think you might want to do ship duty again someday?"

  "Yes, sir! I'm hoping to be assigned with Lieutenant Serrano, sir."

  "Oh." Heris looked startled. "Well, I suppose one Meharry is enough. Oblo, could you find the rest of the Vigilance survivors for me? It's time."

  "Right, sir." Oblo edged his way past her.

  Heris leaned closer. "Cecelia, we have a little tradition for new admirals . . . I hope you'll join in. You are, after all, a new admiral."

  "I knew this was going to get me in trouble," Cecelia said.

  "Oh, we're in this together," Heris said. "Come on, now—" She offered a hand.

  "I'm not senile," Cecelia said, struggling against the ever-thickening crowd. "Just old."

  "Good. We have to go outside."

  "Why? It's raining, it's cold, it's—"

  "Tradition," Heris said. "And here—" She handed over a bag of something heavy and clinking.

  "What is this? What's going on?"

  "If they'd done my promotion ceremony properly, we wouldn't have to go through this, but they had to rush . . . it's like this. You know—don't interrupt, you do know, because I'm telling you—that after a promotion an officer owes a token to the first enlisted personnel who salutes the new rank."

  "Really? It sounds like the owner tipping grooms after—"

  "Get your mind off horses, Cece. This is serious."

  It was serious if you didn't tip grooms, too. Cecelia looked at the set of Heris's jaw and said no more.

  "Shipboard promotions, the newly promoted get a measure of drink chits to give out—same for each of the group being promoted. Dockside, they usually give cash tokens—even if most of the bars won't take 'em and would rather charge a credit cube. Anyway, admirals are supposed to do a bit more. Now I took care of the food part, but we still have to get through the saluting part. These are tokens I had made up, not for this but for another purpose. They'll do. How old are you, anyway?"

  "How old am I?"

  "Yes. See, admirals pay by the year. You have to take and honor as many so-called first salutes as y
ears of your age."

  Cecelia thought fast. "On which planet?"

  "Be serious. Never cheat your people."

  "I don't honestly know. Eighty-something—maybe ninety by now . . . ?"