The Serrano Connection

by Elizabeth Moon

  Whom were they guarding? Surely not the young woman . . . if they had been, they had failed in some way or she would not have been hurt. A lieutenant commander? Hardly . . . unless he were not a lieutenant commander at all.

  She glanced back at the young woman, and surprised by an expression on both faces so alike that it had to imply a relationship. Her eye, trained on a planet where families mattered, and where she had been expected to recognize even the most distant Suiza cousin, picked out now the similarities of bone and proportion, as well as behavioral quirks like the sudden lift of eyebrow that both older man and younger woman showed at that moment.

  "Brun . . ." That carried, in part because the tone was so like the pleading tone her own father had used. Her mind caught on the unusual word. Brun. Wasn't that—? She clamped her mouth shut on the apple tart. If that was the blonde girl who had been involved in the Xavier affair, then her father was the present Speaker of the Grand Council . . . the most powerful man in the Familias Regnant. What could they be doing here?

  Speculation having outrun data, she munched steadily through the tart, studiously ignoring the argument which continued, in lower voices, at the other table. She struggled to remember all the snippets of rumor she'd heard about Thornbuckle's wild youngest daughter . . . a spoiled beauty, a hotheaded fool who had plunged into the thick of intrigue with no training, an idiot who'd ended up dead drunk and naked in a rockhopper's pod in the aftermath of a battle. But also something about being, in some obscure way, Admiral Vida Serrano's protÈgÈ, because of her services to the Familias and—most particularly—to Admiral Serrano's niece Heris.

  "Excuse me," someone said. Esmay swallowed the last bite of tart, and looked up. She had been concentrating so hard on not noticing what she shouldn't notice that she hadn't noticed anyone approaching her table.

  It was one of the bodyguards. He had no rank insignia on his exercise clothes, but from his face he was older than she.

  "Yes?"

  "You're Lieutenant Suiza, aren't you?"

  Despite the therapy, her gut tightened. "Yes, that's right."

  "Lieutenant Commander . . . Smith . . . would like to meet you."

  "Lieutenant Commander Smith?"

  He nodded his head toward the other table. "Smith," he said firmly. "And his daughter."

  For a moment Esmay wished that she had just lived with her hunger until the next scheduled main meal. She had no desire to get involved in whatever was going on, whether it was a matter of father-daughter dissension or some plot against the Familias.

  "Of course," she said, and rose from the table.

  The older man and the young woman watched her approach with, Esmay thought, the wrong sort of interest. The older man had the sort of face which might have been pleasant, but presently had locked into a tight mask of concern. The young woman looked both annoyed and afraid.

  "Commander Smith," Esmay said, "I'm Lieutenant Suiza."

  "Have a seat," the man said. Although his uniform fitted his tall, lanky body perfectly, she was sure it did not fit his spirit . . . it would have needed stars on the shoulders, and plenty of them.

  "This is an unexpected honor," the man went on. "I had heard about you, of course, from Admiral Serrano, after Xavier—and now this recent business—"

  This, for instance, was not the way a real lieutenant commander would have brought it up. Esmay wondered whether to relieve him of the need for faking a military identity, and had her mouth open when the young woman spoke.

  "Dad! Stop it!"

  "Brun, I'm merely—"

  Now almost whispering, but still angrily, the young woman continued. "You're not really a lieutenant commander and it's not fair." She turned to Esmay. "I'm Brun Meager, Lord Thornbuckle's daughter, and this is my father."

  "I'm pleased to meet Commander Smith," Esmay said, "under the circumstances."

  His face relaxed a bit, and his mouth quirked. "Well, one of you young ladies has a bit of discretion."

  "I'm not being indiscreet," Brun said. "She could see you weren't really a Fleet officer, and I could see the wheels going around in her head as she tried to figure out how to handle it."

  "One allows prominent people to introduce themselves as they choose," Esmay said. "One's private curiosity never intrudes."

  Brun blinked. "Where are you from?"

  "Altiplano," Esmay said. "Where, on occasion, senior officials may choose to appear in borrowed identities."

  "And where good manners seem to have penetrated more than in some other places," Lord Thornbuckle said pointedly. Brun flushed again.

  "I don't like deception."

  "Oh, really? That's why you so carefully avoided using your own name when you were coming back to Rockhouse—"

  "That was different," Brun said. "There was a good reason—"

  "There's a good reason now, Brun, and if you can't see that I'll go back to calling you Bubbles with reason." For all his low, even voice and quiet face, Lord Thornbuckle was seriously angry. Esmay wished she were on the other side of the planet. Father-daughter conflict raised ghosts she wanted laid to rest. Brun subsided, but Esmay had the feeling she was not really subdued.

  "Perhaps we could continue this in another location," Lord Thornbuckle said. Esmay could think of no polite way to refuse, and she wasn't sure where her duty lay, as an R.S.S. officer. But she would have to report to class at 0800 local time the next morning, and she had a lot to do in the meantime. Still . . . he was who he was, and even who he wasn't outranked her.

  "Of course, sir," Esmay said.

  Thornbuckle nodded to the men at the other table, who stood up. "I'm afraid we will have an escort."

  That didn't bother Esmay; what bothered her was landing in the middle of whatever mess this was. She noticed that the escort split up, two going ahead and one trailing behind. Were they Fleet? She couldn't tell. She felt she should be able to tell; the civilians aboard Kos had been obvious enough. These didn't look like civilians, but they didn't quite fit Fleet, either. Private guards?

  The conference room they finally entered was small, centered with a table large enough for only eight or so to surround. It had a display console at one end, but Lord Thornbuckle ignored that. He waited until his escort nodded, then sat at one end of the table. Habit, Esmay supposed.

  "Sit down, and I'll make this as brief as possible. You haven't been here long, have you?"

  "Just got off the shuttle, sir," Esmay said. "I'm here for the command courses I missed earlier, and then the standard junior officers' course." The one that would qualify her to command a ship in combat, according to the Board of Inquiry which had recommended it. Of course, not being qualified hadn't stopped her yet—but she put that out of mind and prepared to focus on whatever Lord Thornbuckle had to say.

  "My daughter wanted to take some training with Fleet experts," Thornbuckle said. "I agreed, in part because she'd gotten herself in so much trouble without training . . . it seemed the risk-taking genes had all come together in her."

  "And the lucky genes," Brun said. "I know they're not enough, but they're also not negligible. That's what Captain—Commander—Serrano said. And her aunt admiral."

  The thought of anyone calling Vida Serrano "aunt admiral"—even a niece—shocked Esmay. For this girl—for Brun was clearly younger than she was—to do so would have been unthinkable except that Brun had just done it.

  "But there've been incidents," Thornbuckle went on, ignoring what Brun had just said. "I thought she'd be safer here, on a Fleet training facility—"

  "I am safer," Brun said.

  "Brun, face the facts: someone shot at you. Tried to kill you."

  Esmay managed not to say what she was thinking, that a Fleet training facility was not, in the nature of things, the safest place in the universe. Live fire exercises, for instance. Was this what the girl had gotten into?

  "It wasn't anywhere near a live fire exercise," Thornbuckle went on. "That was my first thought, of course. Military training is dangerous;
it has to be. But we—and by 'we' I mean not only myself, but others who've seen Brun in action—thought it would be less dangerous than turning her loose on the universe untrained." He spread his hands. "No—this has been different. I suppose we were just careless. We knew there were traitors in Fleet; that mess with Xavier proved it. But it didn't dawn on me that there might be traitors here, in a training base, until Admiral Serrano pointed it out. We knew that Brun might be at special risk, but we didn't react fast enough."

  "I'm alive," Brun said.

  "You survived with your usual flair," her father said. "But you also had to spend a day in the regen tank, which is not what I call coming out unscathed. Too close for comfort is my analysis. You have to have more protection, or you have to leave."

  Brun's shoulders twitched. "I'll be careful," she said.

  "Not good enough. You have to sleep sometime."

  "Have you identified the nature of the threat?" Esmay asked, to forestall another round of useless argument.

  "No. Not . . . precisely. And the worst of it is that I can see a variety of threats. The Benignity's not happy with their loss at Xavier, and we are sure they have other agents in Fleet. Some have been identified, others haven't. They consider assassination a political tool. The Bloodhorde . . . well, you can imagine how they would like to have my daughter in their control. Then there are my personal enemies among the Familias. A few years ago, I would not have believed any of the Families would make war on personal relations, but now—things have changed."

  "And you—or your advisors—think your daughter should leave this facility?"

  "It would be easier to protect her at home, or even on Castle Rock."

  "I would go crazy," Brun muttered. "I'm not a child, and I can't just sit around doing nothing."

  "Do you want to join Fleet?" Esmay asked. She couldn't really imagine this obvious rebel wanting to join anything with discipline, but if she hadn't understood . . .

  "I did at one time," Brun said, eyeing her father. "Now—I'm not sure."

  "She doesn't want to get stuck doing boring things," Thornbuckle said. Brun flushed.

  "It's not that—!"

  "Isn't it? When Captain Serrano pointed out how much of her time was spent on boring routine, you said you didn't much like that prospect."

  "I don't, but that's part of any life. I do understand that, just as I understand that the exciting bits are dangerous. You seem to think—"

  Esmay jumped in again, as much for her own comfort as for the hope of getting useful information. "Perhaps you could tell me what you think I might do to help?"

  "She needs a"—Thornbuckle paused, and Esmay was sure he was thinking of the word keeper—"Mentor," he said instead. "If she's going to stay here, I need to know that someone of her—" Another pause, during which Esmay could almost hear the unspoken, discarded choices: social standing, rank, type, ability . . . "Someone she might respect and listen to, anyway, will be near her. She's been chattering about you and your exploits—"

  "I do not chatter," Brun said, through her teeth.

  "So I thought maybe you—"

  "She has her own responsibilities," Brun said. "And there are the . . . guards." In that gap was some epithet Esmay was glad the guards had not heard.

  "Are you telling me now that you will accept the security procedures we talked about?"

  "Rather than bother Lieutenant Suiza, yes." Brun gave Esmay a challenging look. "She will be busy with her own courses here; they don't exactly give officers time off to play nursemaid to rich girls."

  Esmay interpreted this as having more to do with Brun's determination not to have a nursemaid than any consideration of her own convenience.

  Thornbuckle looked from one to the other of them. "I have seen more cooperative senior ministers of state," he said. "Whatever gene sculpting we did on you, Brun, is not going to be repeated again."

  "I didn't ask for it," Brun said. Again Esmay sensed old arguments lurking below the surface.

  "No—but life gives you a lot you didn't ask for. Now—if you promise me that you will cooperate with the new security procedures—"

  "All right," Brun said, not quite sulkily. "I'll cooperate."

  "Then, Lieutenant Suiza, I'm very sorry to have wasted your time. And I must thank you for your recent actions; you well deserve your recent award." He nodded at the new ribbon on her uniform.

  "Thank you," Esmay said, wondering if she was just supposed to leave and forget the conversation had ever happened. She turned to Brun and supressed an almost wistful expression on her face. "If we end up in the same class, I'll be glad to share notes with you. I'm glad to have met you."

  Brun nodded; Esmay got up when Thornbuckle did, and he walked her to the door. "I'm officially still Smith," he said quietly.

  "I understand, sir." She understood more than she wanted to, or than he expected. She was glad to get back to her own quarters, where she could deal with her memories of her father in privacy. There, she found a stack of study cubes in the delivery bin, and racked them into the cube reader's storage. Some looked much more promising than others; Leadership for Junior Officers made sense, but why did she have to study Administrative Procedures for Junior Staff? She didn't want anything to do with administration.

  Brun curled up on her bunk under her very non-regulation afghan and pretended to nap until her security detail had finished whatever it was doing and gone to stand outside. As if she were a prisoner. As if she were a naughty child. As if being shot at were her fault.

  Her father had done it again. She would have been fine, if he had only been somewhere else, if only she had had time to get well before he showed up. But no. He had to come here, still unsure she should be doing things like this, and embarrass her in front of a roomful of professionals . . .

  In front of Esmay Suiza.

  She rolled over, and picked up her remote, then flicked on her cube reader, cycling through the selections until she found the one she wanted.

  Back on Xavier, while she herself was drunk and incapable (as her father had mentioned more than once), Esmay Suiza had survived the treachery of her captain, the mutiny that followed, and then saved everyone—including Brun—by blowing up the enemy flagship. Brun had followed the court-martial of Despite's crew in the news; she had wondered over and over how that calm young woman with the flyaway hair managed to do it. She didn't look that special—but something in the expression, in the eyes that never wavered, caught at her.

  And then the same young woman had been a hero again, in an adventure that seemed like something out of a storycube series . . . she had been outside a ship during FTL flight and survived; she had defeated another enemy. Once more her image filled the news viewers, and once more Brun had imagined meeting her . . . talking to her . . . becoming—she was sure they could become—friends.

  When she'd learned that Esmay Suiza was coming here, to Copper Mountain—that she might even be in the same classes—she had been so certain that her luck was running true. Here at last was the woman who could help her be like that, help her combine her uncooperative past experiences into the self she wanted to be.

  And now her father had ruined it. He had treated Suiza as a professional, worthy of respect; he had made it clear he thought Brun was a headstrong child. What would Esmay Suiza think now—what could she think, when the Speaker of the Grand Council, her own father, had presented her that way? It was impossible that Suiza could see her as a competent adult.

  She would not let it be impossible. She would not let this chance go by. There had to be some way to convince Suiza that she was more than a silly fluffhead. Fluffhead made her think of Suiza's hair, which could certainly use some attention . . . maybe Suiza would be approachable on a girl-to-girl level first, and then she could prove what else she could do. . . .

  At the next main meal, a few hours later, Esmay returned to the mess, and sat with a tableful of jigs and lieutenants who had arrived the day before. She remembered a few of them from the Ac
ademy, but had not served with any of them. They knew of her recent exploits and were eager to discuss them.

  "What's it like to fly a Bloodhorde raider?" asked Vericour, another lieutenant. In the six years since their graduation, he had gained several kilos and now sported a crisp red mustache.

  "Fun," said Esmay, knowing the expected response. "Goes like a bat, even if you don't redline it."

  "Shielding?"

  "None to speak of. And the weapons systems are amazing for its size. The interior's mostly weapons, very little crew space."

  "They must have lousy shooting, if they missed you—"

  "They didn't shoot at us first," Esmay said. "After all, I was in their ship. They let us get close, and—poof."

  "Yeah . . . that's the way. What're you here for?"

  "A whole string of things," Esmay said. "I'm changing to command track—"

  "You mean you weren't?"

  "No." How to explain this one?

  Vericour shrugged. "That's Fleet Personnel for you. Take someone with a flair like yours and shove her into technical, just because they need more techs. They ought to recruit techs, if they want more."

  Esmay opened her mouth to explain it hadn't been Fleet's fault, considered the difficulty of the subsequent explanations, and nodded instead. "Yup. So now they've let me into command track, and I have to play catch-up. All the stuff I missed—"

  "They're not going to drag you through command psychology, and all that dorf?"

  Esmay nodded.

  "When you've actually commanded ships in battle? That's ridiculous."

  In sardonic chorus, everyone else at the table said "No, that's regulations!" Vericour laughed, and Esmay along with him. She was enjoying herself, she realized, with people who were almost strangers, even without Barin. The discovery that she could enjoy herself like this was new enough that it still surprised her when it happened.

  "You know, I heard the Speaker's daughter's here," Anton Livadhi said, in a lower tone.