Against the Odds

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 just 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 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 it 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 cacophony 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.

“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.

“That’s right,” the man said in an undertone.

“That too.”

“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.

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—”

“Admiral Serrano,” the man in front of the group said. He had, Cecelia noticed, stars on his shoulders. More than any of the others.

“Which Admiral Serrano,” muttered Oblo, along with something Cecelia refused to admit she’d heard.

All the admirals Serrano stood up, and Cecelia was suddenly reminded of the confrontation scene in a bad historical drama, two rival gangs facing each other down. Sabado Serrano moved, as if to speak, but Heris put out her hand.

“We are sorry for your loss,” she said, into the silence.

“You—” that was the senior Livadhi, but his voice choked. He shook his head, then went on. “We came to apologize to you. For what he did.”

“I named him,” Heris said. “As an absent friend.”

Cecelia felt an ache in her chest; it had never occurred to her to name a traitor as an absent friend, to grieve for an enemy.

“Is it too late to sing him home?” asked the senior Livadhi.

“It is never too late,” Heris said, “to honor the good in a man’s life, or grieve his loss.” She nodded to the other Serranos and began the song; other voices joined in.