The Serrano Connection

by Elizabeth Moon

He stopped beside a groundcar parked in a row. He opened the driver's door, and then the back doors popped open. "Get in," he said. She looked him full in the face, and mouthed Hazel. He paled. "Look down! Get in," he said. "Before someone notices."

  She slipped into the back seat, and leaned forward, waiting for him. As soon as he closed his own door, she tapped his shoulder. He glanced back.

  Hazel.

  "I can't understand you. What's wrong?"

  Damn the idiot fool. How had Lady Cecelia kept from bursting? There on the seat beside him were a map and notebook, with a pen. She reached over and snatched at it, wrote GET HAZEL in large letters, and then RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. He read, then paled even more.

  "We can't do that! No one can get in there! Dammit, woman, you want off this planet or not?"

  She tapped GET HAZEL again, glaring into his face, trying to give him a mind-to-mind transfusion of her determination.

  "Who the hell is Hazel, anyway?"

  She wrote again: GIRL ON SHIP. GET HER AWAY TOO.

  "Can't do it," he said, starting the groundcar. "Now you sit back, and I'll take you where it's arranged—" The barrier between them started to rise; Brun lunged forward, putting her weight on it, and the barrier stopped, its mechanism whining loudly. "Get back, you fool." The mechanism that moved the barrier gave a grinding noise and died; the barrier slid back the small distance it had risen. She paid no attention, wriggling over the barrier into the front passenger seat. Up here the windows weren't frosted. The man jerked the groundcar out of its parking space and accelerated. "Gods, woman, if they see you up here—"

  She held the paper out: GET HAZEL.

  "I can't, I tell you! The five Rangers are the most powerful men in town. Ever since Mitch Pardue got elected Ranger Bowie, he's been angling for the Captaincy. I can't barge in there and get some fool girl. I got you; that's what I contracted to do."

  Brun glanced at the groundcar controls, at his movements as he turned, slowed, sped up again, made another turn. Simple enough. After the next turn, she grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard. He yanked back, and stared at her long enough to almost hit another groundcar. "Dammit! Woman! It's no wonder they muted you—Heaven knows what you'd say if you could talk!"

  She scribbled rapidly on the notebook. GET HAZEL. IT'S MARKET DAY—SHE GOES OUT. MARKET NEAR RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. She pushed that in front of his face; the groundcar swerved again; she lowered it slightly, so he could read and see over it.

  "Can't do it. Too dangerous. I have it all planned out—"

  She poked a finger into his ear, hard, and laid the pruning knife on his thigh, pointed where he could not ignore it. The groundcar swerved wildly, then he got it back on his side of the street. "You're crazy, you are. All right, we'll drive past Ranger Bowie house. And the damn market. But you've got to get in the back. If anyone sees—" He glanced at her, and she bared her teeth. "All right, I said. I'll do it; we'll go past. But you're going to get us killed—"

  With some care, Brun reversed herself into the back seat, making sure that she had enough weight on the barrier to prevent its coming back up, if the controls weren't actually broken. She laid the knife at the back of his neck . . . it would do no good there, unless it was strong enough to slide between the vertebrae, but she judged it too obvious to hold it to his throat.

  "They told me you were wild, but they didn't tell me you were crazy," the man grumbled. Brun grinned. They hadn't known what had been done to her, or they'd have known how crazy she was.

  "That's Ranger Bowie's house," the man said finally. Brun stared, uncertain. It was one of five huge houses arranged around the sides of a plaza . . . in the center was a huge five-pointed star outlined in flowers and grass. Pretty, really, if you weren't trying to escape the place. "Ranger Houston, Ranger Crockett, Ranger Travis, and Ranger Lamar. Ranger Travis is Captain right now. The nearest market to Ranger Bowie's house is down this street . . . the women's service door is right down there, see?"

  Brun saw a shadowed gap in the long stucco wall. As they drove past, she could see the door set back from the sidewalk, and the little alcove for the gate guard. They went past one cross street, then another. Ahead, down this street, a rope blocked off traffic beyond the next cross street.

  "That's the market—groundcars can't go there. Nor you. Now you've seen there's nothing we can do, we can—"

  Brun pressed the tip of the knife just below his ear. With her other hand she scrabbled for the pen and notebooks, and printed, GO AROUND, KEEP LOOKING.

  On the third circuit, Brun spotted a woman walking toward Ranger Bowie House, baskets in each hand, still some blocks from it. Something about the quick, short shuffle caught her eye. She tapped the driver's shoulder.

  "That her?" He eased the car closer.

  It was hard to tell . . . the dark head bent forward, the slim body gliding along with those short, quick steps enforced by her dress. But as the car slid past, Brun caught a glimpse of the serious face, that tucked-in lower lip. She tapped the man's arm again, hard.

  "I'm gonna regret this, I know I am." But he pulled the car to the curb and got out.

  "You. Girlie." Hazel stopped, eyes on the ground. "You from Ranger Bowie House?" She nodded. "I got business there. Get in back." He popped the rear doors. Brun could feel Hazel's confusion, her uncertainty, her near-panic. "Hurry up now," he said. "I don't want to have to tell Mitch you're lazy." She ducked into the car, then, eyes still down. Then she saw Brun, and her eyes widened. Brun grinned. The driver got back in, grumbling, and tried to raise the shield, but the mechanism made only a faint noise and the barrier didn't go up. "Sit low," the driver said, and drove off quickly.

  "Brun . . . what . . . where . . . ?" Hazel's voice was soft as mothwings.

  Brun mouthed escape, but Hazel shook her head. So Brun made a rocket of one hand, and jerked it upward. Hazel stared, then grinned.

  "Really?" Hazel almost bounced on the seat with excitement, but her voice was soft. "I was trying to figure a way—I'd found out where you were, an' all, an' I told Simplicity as much as I could without getting in trouble, hoping she'd see you—"

  Brun nodded. She mimed the groundcar taking them to the rocket. She didn't know if that was the plan—she still didn't know what the plan was—but surely that was the gist of it. Then she showed Hazel the notebook and wrote: LITTLE GIRLS.

  "We can't take them," Hazel said.

  YES.

  "No—we can't—I already decided that, months ago. They're happy, they're safe, and they wouldn't make it anyway."

  Brun stared at Hazel. This . . . child had decided? But Hazel's expression didn't waver. She was not just a child.

  "We have to," Hazel said. "Leastways—" Brun winced at the local expression. "At least," Hazel corrected, "we have to try. You, for sure. And your babies?"

  Brun shrugged, and wrote: CAN'T TAKE THEM. TOO RISKY. TOO LITTLE.

  "See? Same with Brandy and Stassi. We can't do it."

  The driver spoke up. "Glad one of you's got sense. All right now . . . we got us a little problem. I'd planned to pass Brun off as a man—brought along men's clothes for her; they're under the seat there—but I don't know what to do about . . . Hazel."

  Brun mimed a purchase to Hazel, and nodded to the driver. Tell him. Hazel looked scared, her mouth pinched tight. Then, in a high thin voice she said, "Brun says buy some."

  "Buy some! Buy some, she says. And just how am I supposed to stop and buy some?"

  But he pulled over a few streets further on, and made his way to a sidewalk vendor. Brun, peeking over the barrier, saw him choose blue pants, a brown shirt, and high-topped boots like most of the men wore, and a hat. He was back in just a few minutes, and when he started the car again, he threw the clothes over the barrier.

  "You change now, both of you. Put your dresses under the seat. I'll get rid of 'em later. You'll have to cut your hair, but not here—mustn't leave hair in the car. I've got knives for both of you."

  As the car sped on, over the s
treets and then into the countryside on a roughly paved road, Brun and Hazel struggled with the confined space in the back seat, each other, and the clothes they had to get off and put on. Brun, having more to take off, went first; Hazel helped her bind her breasts as flat as she could. Then Hazel, and Brun tore a strip off the bottom of her dress to flatten Hazel as well. Getting into the long pants while trying to stay low, out of sight of passing groundcars, meant lying across the seat—and each other. Hardest to put on were the boots—stiff leather on feet that had been bare for more than a year. It would all have been funny if they hadn't been so afraid of being caught, and they actually did giggle when they finally stuffed the hated dresses under the seat. Brun felt it had been worth it already—she had not laughed, really laughed, since her capture, and even though she could make no sound, the laughter eased her. Hazel tucked her hair up, and jammed the hat on her head; Brun pushed her hat down on top of her head.

  Hazel, Brun thought, looked like a real person again. She sat leaning forward now, eyes sparkling with excitement, her face no longer obscured by hair. Her clothes fit a little loose and the sleeves of her shirt were up the wrist a little, as if she had almost grown out of them. Hazel looked at her, smiling, and then lifted Brun's hat to push her hair more firmly under it. Brun felt that her own pants were bulky and too loose—but anything was better than that clinging skirt.

  Their driver glanced back. "Not likely to be seen, out here," he said. "You do look different, I'll say that. You aren't embarrassed to wear men's clothes?"

  Brun shook her head.

  "Well, that's good, because they're gonna be looking for two women in dresses, not two men. Remember now, you have to walk like men—big steps—and look other men straight in the eye. We—they—don't like shifty folk. Now I'm gonna let you off up here in about a mile—" Whatever distance that was . . . Brun still hadn't figured out feet and inches and ells. "And then you'll have to hike over them hills—" He pointed at a line of hills ahead. "Soon's you're out of sight, you got to cut your hair real short, like no woman would. So you can take your hat off without bein' spotted as women. You take your hat off to womenfolk, even though they aren't supposed to look at you—it's polite. And men'll see you."

  The map he gave them, along with a canteen and a packet of food, was supposed to guide them on the next stage. Brun looked at it and grinned in relief. Someone had marked it in standard measurements, not this planet's idiot miles. Someone had also printed, in a hand she thought she knew, Brun—we're here.

  From the pulloff, a trail led up into the hills. A signpost had a string of names on it; Brun ignored them. After a few wavery strides, her legs remembered how to stretch, and she found her balance in the ridiculous boots. Hazel staggered once, grimaced, but moved up beside her.

  They were out of sight of the road in less than a hundred meters, and into thick scrub. Brun made scissor movements next to her head, and Hazel nodded. They slipped off the trail and into the head-high bushes, to do some barbering.

  Brun made it clear, with gestures, that they must catch the hairs they cut off. She had no idea what to do with them, but they weren't going to leave them around as obvious trail markers. As her hair came off, as the wind reached her scalp, she felt her brain cooling, felt the lessons she'd been taught in the Fleet escape and evasion course coming back to her. She twisted the cut hanks of her own hair into a roll of the appropriate size, put it in one of the spare socks, and stuffed it down the front of her pants. Hazel goggled, then choked back a laugh that was half shock. Brun shrugged, and swaggered a few steps. We're men; we need men things. Hazel had less hair for hers, but she was younger anyway. And it did make her look more like a boy.

  She struggled up the trail in those ridiculous boots . . . she'd have been more comfortable barefoot but men didn't go barefoot. Stupid people, she thought. Only really stupid people would assign footgear on the basis of gender rather than use, and choose these blistering boots for walking somewhere.

  Hazel would have talked, but Brun waved her to silence. Voices carried, in the open, and Hazel's soft voice wasn't very boylike. Brun didn't know if she could do a boy's voice, and didn't want to find out she couldn't.

  So when they heard the men talking, she had a few seconds warning. She caught Hazel's eye, jerked her chin up, and walked on. Around the next curve in the path came a pair of men, dressed much as she and Hazel were, though one of them had a bundle on his back. Brun stared straight at the first man, then the second, and tightened her lips. They gave her a short nod, and strode by in silence. Brun felt herself start to shake and lengthened her stride. Hazel grabbed her arm and squeezed, hard. Brun nodded. Neither looked behind as they struggled on up the hill.

  They had made it over the first ridge, and halfway up the second, when Brun's breasts began to throb. She glanced at the sky. Drat. The twins would be waking now, beginning to whimper, even if no one had found them before.

  "What?" asked Hazel softly. Brun put her hands to her breasts and winced. Hazel said "Swelling?" Brun nodded. Minute by minute, they throbbed more, until she felt she could not stand it . . . but her feet hurt almost as much.

  Take your pick, she thought. At least you're out here. And she took as deep a breath as she could of the fresh hill air. She would walk her feet to bloody stubs, and let her breasts explode before she would go back to that miserable nursery.

  "You miss your babies?" Hazel asked.

  Brun shook her head violently. Hazel looked shocked; Brun regretted her vehemence, but . . . she felt what she felt. If they had been someone else's babies, she might have felt a pang of softness for them, she had liked babies, when someone else took care of them—but not these. She set her face resolutely to the trail and struggled on.

  Near sundown they came to the clearing marked on Brun's map. Here they were supposed to be met . . . or she was; whoever it was wouldn't expect Hazel.

  The man who stepped out of the shadow of the trees not only didn't expect Hazel, he didn't want her. "I didn't get paid for two," he said roughly. "What are you trying to pull, missy?" Brun glared at him. Then she took the notebook from Hazel and wrote: SHE GOES TOO.

  "I wasn't paid . . ." the man began. Brun made the universal signal for money—and saw it recognized, proving once again that humans had a common origin, something she'd been willing to doubt this past year and more. She pointed to the sky, then rubbed her fingers again. Money there, if you get us there. The man spat.

  "All right. But I don't want to hear any complaints when it's crowded in the shuttle."

  Brun stared around. Shuttle here? This was no shuttlefield. But the man was walking quickly along the shadowed edge of the clearing, and she followed.

  "We got us a ways to go, and I guess it's lucky I brung a extra. Hope you can ride." With that, he ducked into the trees and Brun smelled . . . horses.

  This was not how she'd planned to ride again. She had imagined herself on one of her father's hunters, galloping over the fields of home. Instead, Brun had to stretch her sore legs on the wide barrel of a brown horse with all the character of a sofa, because Hazel, who had never been on a horse before, had to have a saddle. The man swore he couldn't ride bareback—and if he was used to that armchair for a saddle, no wonder. At least her body had not forgotten that balance.

  "By God, you can ride," the man said, as she moved up beside him. Brun smiled, thinking nonsmiling thoughts, and he looked over at Hazel. "That's it," he said. Brun glanced over; Hazel looked terrified. She was clutching the knob that stuck up from the front of the saddle as if it could anchor her, and trying to strangle the horse with her legs. Brun caught her eye, and gestured down her own body: Sit straight, head up, relax your legs. Hazel straightened.

  They rode through the night, meeting no one at all on the trail. Brun shifted as one spot after another wore raw. She had wanted to wear pants again; she had wanted to ride again, but this—she thought of the old saw about being careful what you asked for. The man spoke occasionally: "That way's Lem's cab
in." "Over there's the pass to Smoky's place."

  When first light began to give shape to the treetops on the slopes above them, their guide slowed. "It's only a tad more," he said. "Just down this slope." At the foot of the slope, they came out of trees and brush to find a long grassy field ending in a steep hill. Brun could not see anything resembling a shuttle. Was this a trap after all? But the man led the way along the edge of the field, and she realized it might be a grass runway. It was longer than it looked; when she glanced back along it, the far end was hidden in ground fog. The hill, as they neared it, revealed a hangar door set into it. That was promising. Set back under the trees was a log cabin with a peaked roof; beyond it was a larger log building, a barn, and in between was an enclosure of peeled poles where two more horses and a cow munched hay.

  The man led them up to a gate set into the enclosure, and swung off his horse as if he'd only ridden an hour or so, not all night. Neither Brun nor Hazel could dismount alone. The man had to help them, pushing and tugging. He swore at them. Brun wished for the ability to swear back. She had not been on a horse in years, and in between she'd borne twins—what did he expect after riding all night bareback? She was sure she'd worn all the skin off her thighs and buttocks. As for Hazel, she'd never ridden before; she'd be lucky if she could walk at all in a few hours.

  In the cabin, a stocky woman prepared breakfast for all of them. She never looked at them, never spoke, but set plates in front of them and kept them full. Brun raged inwardly, but they could not take all the women on this planet. I will come back, she vowed silently. Somehow . . .

  After breakfast, Brun managed to stand up; she gave Hazel a hand. Outside, the man was opening the hangar door, and at last Brun could see what was waiting for them. Her grin broadened. It was a little mixed-purpose shuttle, the same kind she'd been in when Cecelia had sent her back to Rockhouse. She could fly it herself if she had to. She thought briefly of knocking the man on the head and doing just that, but she had no idea how he planned to evade Traffic Control—if this place even had Traffic Control. It did have warplanes, though, and she had no desire to meet them.