Against the Odds

by Elizabeth Moon

"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 years 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 . . . ?"

  "Call it ninety. Your arm's going to get tired." Heris stopped and looked back. "You do know how to salute, don't you?"

  "No." This was the most ridiculous of the many ridiculous things that had happened since the trim little woman in the purple uniform had appeared on Sweet Delight to start over as a yacht captain. "I do not know how to salute. I am, after all, in covert ops."

  "Not now, you aren't. You're about to get promoted and retired all in one night. Come on."

  Outside, the cold rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the pavements wet. Cecelia balked momentarily at the door. "I don't see why we can't do this inside . . ."

  "Because it's a bar," Heris said. "Come on—it won't take long."

  "Everybody's inside," Cecelia said. "It will take us hours to find ninety people to salute us." They would be wet and cold and miss the whole party. Surely that wasn't the right idea.

  "Come on," Heris said. "Admirals don't loiter in doorways."

  Grumbling, Cecelia followed her down the sidewalk. Whatever they designed admirals' uniforms for, it was not staying warm in cold windy rain. "Where are we going?"

  "Far enough so I can show you how to salute without embarrassing you or the others."

  "What others?"

  "I can tell you're an admiral, Cecelia, because only an admiral gets to ask that many questions. Now watch." Heris demonstrated. Cecelia tried it, and after a few repetitions, the motion seemed almost familiar. Almost.

  "I'll muck it up somehow," she said.

  "No, you won't. It's just the same old noblesse oblige with a hand movement."

  When they turned back, Cecelia could just make out a double row of figures standing in the cold rain. She shivered, not only from the cold.

  "From Vigilance," Heris said. "It's their right."

  At first i
t felt awkward, ridiculous, like a travesty . . . Heris was the real admiral, the one to whom salutes should be given. She was just an old lady playing a game, trying to help out but not really what her uniform suggested. But Oblo didn't play games; his salute steadied her. Methlin Meharry would not countenance a travesty, nor lead her brother to do so. Chief Jones was not ridiculous. Koutsoudas . . . others from Vigilance, and then the rest of the survivors from the Bonar Tighe. Cecelia felt more than rain stinging her face. She didn't deserve this . . . but she had to live up to it.

  Her arm was very tired when she handed out the last of the tokens Heris had given her, and they went back inside.

  The toasts were just beginning. She could not identify the protocol that determined which toast would come next, but she could tell there was one. She slipped an antox pill under her tongue. At least she wouldn't have to suffer the consequences of what looked to be a very long night. The tables were packed now; so she edged toward the bar, where the man in the yellow jacket still held his place.

  Oblo and Meharry moved up beside her and Oblo spoke to her. "How long're we going to have to wait for the politician?"

  "Politician?"

  "They said we'd have to wait—he wants to make a speech. The Speaker."

  Cecelia grinned at him. "We don't have to wait," she said. "The politician's already here."

  Oblo looked around. "Who? It's got to be a civilian, right? You're not telling me that fat guy in yellow is the new Speaker! Methlin's brother says he's a scientist—"

  "No, she's not a scientist," Cecelia said. Oblo glared at her. Meharry grinned.

  "Who, then?"

  "Look around," Cecelia suggested, nodding toward the tableful of Serranos, where Esmay was snugged up against Barin, and Brun was talking earnestly to Vida.

  "Not—her? Brun? That fluffhead?"

  "She's not a fluffhead now, Oblo."

  "Well . . . I'll . . . be . . ."

  Whatever the end of that would have been, it was drowned in a roar of "Speech! Speech!" as a non-Serrano admiral pounded on the bar. Cecelia watched as Vida stood up and waited while the room quieted.

  "I have the honor of introducing the Speaker of the Grand Council, who came here from Castle Rock to speak to us."

  Brun stood, looked around the packed room, then spoke to someone near her. One Serrano cleared that end of the table for her to stand on, and helped her up. She stood there and let them all look.

  "I have a personal reason to thank you," she began, her voice slightly husky; they had to quiet down to hear her. "When I was a young idiot, and got myself into trouble, you came and got me out. Some have argued that it was wrong: that my father should not have asked you to risk yourselves for me. Some have even said it caused the recent mutiny—that it was this misuse of power which drove some of you—some of your former comrades—to break away. But I'm very glad you did it." Her voice invited a chuckle there, and some did.

  "The Regular Space Service, since its inception, has been our protection against enemies foreign and domestic. You've had the most difficult of missions, over the centuries, trying to be military and police at the same time, staving off full-scale invasions and handling things like stolen ships and piracy, and you've done it well. Most recently, you've managed to save us from the depredations of your own gone bad. You've had to make hard judgments, you've had to fire on old friends who broke their oath to you. You've done all that well, and your performance is beyond praise.

  "Traditionally, the government would authorize a medal for you—and it will—but what is a medal, compared to what you've been through these last few years? We're going to do something else." Brun paused; the silence now was electric.

  "You'll have heard rumors about the changes in the Grand Council; I'm here to tell you some facts. The younger members of the Great Families, the Founders, have agreed to cooperate—for how long no one knows—" That brought a chuckle. "That's why I'm Speaker. We're opening the Council to elected representatives of groups other than the Families. We're particularly concerned to open opportunities for young people, to keep rejuvenation technology from being a permanent ceiling under which the rest of us are squashed."

  "But you're rich—you can rejuv—" yelled someone from the back of the room.

  "No," Brun said. "I have sworn not to and if I break that oath, I will be removed from all power, both in the Grand Council and in my sept. Now—there's a lot more I could say, and I'll be here several days, talking to a lot of you—but this isn't the time for long political speeches. This celebration isn't about me, or the new blood on the Grand Council. This is about you—what you did, and what it cost you. This is the time to say thank you, from everyone you served—thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We can't replace what you lost—we can only offer you our admiration, and our gratitude." She reached down and one of the admirals handed her a glass. "To Fleet!"

  She started to climb down; Oblo raised a shout himself. "To Brun!!"

  "To Brun!! To the Speaker!! To the Council!!"

  After that came one toast after another, until, following one offered by the senior Serrano admiral, an uneasy silence fell. Cecelia could hear the shuffling of feet, the rustle of cloth. She wondered if they were waiting for the civilian guests to make a toast.

  Then Heris Serrano held her glass high. "Absent friends," she said. And in a roar she was answered, this time with the names, a cacaphony of names, and Cecelia found herself repeating her own list.

  As the noise level dropped, first one voice then another began to sing, a haunting tune Cecelia had never heard before.

  This for the friends we had of old

  Friends for a lifetime's love and cheer.

  This for the friends who come no more

  Who cannot be among us here.

  We'll not forget, while we're alive,

  These hallowed dead, these deeds of fame.

  Where they have gone, we will follow soon

  Into the darkness and the flame.

  Then we shall rise, our duty done,

  Freed from all pain and sorrow here,

  We'll leave behind ambition's sting

  And keep alive our honor dear.

  And they will stand beside us then

  All whom we loved and hoped to see

  And they shall sing, a glad AMEN

  To cheer that final victory.

  "My God," the man in the yellow jacket said, loud enough for her to hear. "That's ancient music. Parry's setting of Blake's lyrics. `Jerusalem'—the battle hymn of the Anglican Masses two centuries or more before humans left Old Earth. But the words . . ." His voice choked, and he shook his head. Cecelia had no idea what he was talking about, and decided he hadn't taken any antox.

  After a pause, some of the voices were singing again.

  Bring me my bow of burning gold

  "That's right," the man said in an undertone.

  Bring me my arrows of desire

  "That too."

  Bring me my ship—O clouds unfold

  "It's not a ship, it's a spear . . ."

  "Shut up, stupid," Cecelia hissed at him. He gave her a startled look over his shoulder, opened his mouth, glanced at Oblo, and turned back to his drink, mercifully silent.

  Bring me my chariot of fire.

  We shall not cease our faithful watch

  Nor shall the sword sleep in our hand

  Till we have gone beyond the stars

  To join that fair immortal band.

  The last voices died away. The man in the yellow jacket turned to her; she saw tears on his face, and felt them on her own.

  "Sorry," he said. "It was just—I'd only heard that on recordings. That music was powerful enough there . . . in real life . . . it's overwhelming."

  "It doesn't matter," Cecelia said.

  "Civilians mostly don't hear it," Oblo said.

  Meharry edged up to the man in the yellow jacket and tapped his arm. "My brother, now, he says you're a professor and saved his life."

 
"Meharry—that young man we pulled out of the raft? I don't think I saved his life—"

  "You did put that nasty major to sleep," the young woman said. She grinned at Meharry and Oblo. "I'm Ensign Pardalt; I was there too. I think the professor saved him a lot of trouble, if not his life."

  "You're from Xavier, right?" Oblo asked.

  "Yes—is that Commander Serrano over there?"

  "Admiral Serrano, now. But yes, if you mean the Serrano who fought at Xavier. Lieutenant Suiza's there too."

  The younger woman's eyes widened. "Both of them here together? I should—I should go thank them—"

  "Come along, then," Meharry said. "I'll take you over there." The professor sighed, then smiled ruefully when Cecelia looked at him.

  "It's not even the young and handsome who can compete with me. Alas, I am a useless old windbag—" He sighed again and grinned. "But you, another beauteous redhead—"

  "No one says beauteous anymore," Cecelia said. "And I'm not—I'm older than you are."

  "Are you sure? I'm over fifty . . ."

  "My looks are deceiving," Cecelia said. She couldn't help it; talking to him seemed to make bad dialogue pop out of her mouth.

  "Oh, well, then. Since you have stars on your shoulder, I presume you're an admiral, and maybe you can tell me when I can get home to my wife."

  "Sorry," Cecelia said. "I'm not in that department. It should be soon, though. I'll be glad to get home, too."

  "She's a very bright girl, that Margiu Pardalt," the professor said, gazing after her, "but she's no substitute for a wife. My wife, at least."

  A gust of icy wet wind blew in as a group in uniform threw open the doors. Cecelia squinted past the lights; she didn't recognize any of them. But from the sudden tense hush, she knew someone did.

  "Who's that?" she asked Oblo.

  "Livadhis," Oblo said. "Lots and lots of Livadhis . . ."

  "Livadhi—but wasn't that the one who—?"

  "Yes." Cecelia could feel Oblo's tension, and she glanced at the tableful of Serrano officers. They, too, had seen the Livadhis. "And what they're doing here—"