The Serrano Connection

by Elizabeth Moon

  He might talk again? He might have a man's voice again? He could hardly believe it—but all around, he saw men and women listening as if they believed it.

  "Our landing craft are ready to launch," the admiral said. "If they are fired on, they will return fire. If they are obstructed, they will fight through . . . and your people, sir, have nothing capable of resisting them. So it rests with you, how this will be." She paused, then went on. "Will you give these orders, or not?"

  It was cooperating with the devil, to take a woman's orders—a woman soldier, an abomination of abominations. For a moment he thought of the weapons hidden in the city, the chance that the other men might be able to launch them. Yet—he could almost feel against his cheek the soft cheeks of his daughters, could almost hear his children's laughter. Kill them? Put them at risk? He had never killed a child in his life—he could not—but these people could, or said they could . . .

  He nodded.

  "You will. Good. Take him to sickbay, and have the treatment reversed, then bring him back to the bridge."

  He was a traitor, a backslider . . . all the way to sickbay, he trembled with the conflict inside. His guards said nothing to him, guiding him along with impersonal efficiency.

  "We have to put you to sleep briefly," the medic explained. "Just long enough to relax the throat muscles—"

  He woke as from a moment of inattention, and felt a lump in his throat. When he cleared it—he could hear it. "I—can—talk . . ."

  "Not to me, you can't," said one of his guards. "You can say what the admiral says you can say. Now come along."

  He sat where they told him to sit, and faced the little blinking light that was a video pickup, and though his voice trembled at first, it steadied as he went along.

  "Jed, you listen to me. This is Mitch, and yes, I'm a prisoner, but that doesn't matter. I want you to let the people that are landing take those outlander children with them. Prima knows which four. And send to Crockett Street Nursery for those twins, the yellow-haired sl—woman's twins. I want all six of 'em released to the people that are comin' for 'em. Prima, you get those children dressed, now . . ."

  "Signal coming up, Admiral—"

  "Let's see it—"

  It was a vid, from his home: Jed, looking angry, with Prima, well behind him, hands clasped respectfully in front of her. They were in the small living room, the one where he'd met the others so often, with the fireplace at one end and the conference table at the other.

  "Mitch, I don't believe it's you, or they've drugged you, or somethin'. It's some kind of trick. An' I'm head of the family now, and I'm not about to let any children of this house into the hands of those—those godless scum!"

  Mitch felt the sweat spring out on his face, his hands. "Jed, you have to. They're comin' anyway—if you cause 'em trouble, they'll be more people dead. Children dead, most likely—"

  "Then they'll go to the Lord. I'm not—"

  Behind Jed, Prima had moved. Without looking up to face the vid pickup, she had stretched out her hand and touched the fireplace poker in its stand. Mitch's breath caught in his throat.

  "—Not going to let the honor of our name be smirched because you got yourself caught like a weakling—"

  Prima held the poker . . . she held it easily, in a grip strengthened by kneading bread dough, wringing out wet wash, lifting babies. He knew the strength of those massive shoulders, those arms.

  "Jed, please . . . don't risk the other children for those few—it's not worth it—please, Jed, let 'em go." Before worse happened, before Prima did something he would have to notice. He struggled to keep his gaze on Jed.

  "If they want a fight, they can have it!" Jed looked at much triumphant as angry. "The preachers have already told us to gather and fight—"

  "The preachers—!" Mitch could hardly keep talking, as he watched Prima walk softly, softly on her bare feet, coming up behind Jed, raising the poker. Horror and hope warred in him—that any woman would strike a man, let alone strike without warning—that maybe, without Jed, the children would be safe . . .

  "You could stop them," Mitch went on, struggling to make Jed understand, Jed who had never understood anything he didn't want to. He should warn Jed; he should admonish Prima. But the children—"You could convince them, if you'd try—" And on the screen Prima looked up at last, straight into the vid pickup, and smiled. "Do it!" Mitch said, not entirely sure who he was talking to, and as Jed opened his mouth, the poker slammed into his head with all the strength of Prima's shoulders and arms . . . and blood spurted up, and she hit him again, and again, on the way down . . .

  "Prima!" he yelled, and his throat cramped, closing on more. She looked up at the vid again, her face settling into its usual calm from an emotion he had never seen before. "Don't let them hurt the children," he said; his voice creaked like that of a young rooster learning to crow. "Don't let them hurt—" His voice failed again; tears stung his eyes.

  Prima's voice on the link was far steadier than his had been. "I want to see . . . what kind of people they are, you would trust with our children."

  "Be careful," he managed to whisper. "Please . . ." He was pleading with a woman . . . pleading . . . and that was wrong, but his throat hurt, and his heart, and he wanted no more pain, for him or the children. The screen in front of him blanked, and then he curled around his misery like a child around a favorite toy.

  "I want to go," said Hazel. "I should—the children know me; they won't be as scared. Brun would go if she could." Brun was sedated, in regen after an attempt at the delicate surgery that might restore her voice. She wouldn't be out for another three days, at the soonest.

  "Not a bad idea," Waltraude Meyerson said. "And I, of course."

  "You! You're not only a civilian, but you have no role in this . . ."

  "I'm the resident expert you brought along—I should get to see these Texas mythologists on their own turf. And I would recommend, Admiral Serrano, that you send a member of your family—perhaps that grandson who keeps hovering around looking hopeful."

  "I hardly think Barin's an appropriate choice," the admiral said.

  "These people care about families. If you send a family member, you are showing that you will risk family to save family. It is also as well that he is male—that will be more acceptable, as long as there are women along."

  "I see. And whom else would you recommend? Do you have the entire mission plan in mind?" Sarcasm, from Admiral Serrano, affected most people like being in close proximity to a large industrial saw, but Professor Meyerson didn't flinch.

  "No, that is your area of expertise. Mine is antique studies."

  Hovers held position above the streets, and a mobile squad kept pace with them, helmet shields down.

  "Looks kind of silly," Hazel said, "with the streets empty."

  "The streets wouldn't be empty if they weren't there," Barin said. His helmet informed him of the location of hotspots in the buildings; they were clustered behind every screened window niche. He hoped none of them had weapons that could penetrate their body armor . . . he hoped even more that Ranger Bowie's transmission had convinced them not to fight. Right now the Fleet forces were on Yellow Two, which meant that even if they were fired on, they were not to return fire without authorization.

  Hazel pointed out the main entrance to the house, and the side street that led to the women's entrance. "I came through this door only once, when he brought me here." Barin noticed that she did not say the man's name or title. "I used that other door to take out refuse or go to the market."

  "But you think we should go in here?"

  "It establishes authority," Professor Meyerson said. She had elected to wear a skirt, though she agreed to wear body armor under it, which made her look considerably bulkier.

  She led the way up to the door; it swung open just before she reached it. A stout woman wearing a blue dress with a wide flounced skirt glared at them. She had a flowered kerchief tied tightly around her head.

  "That's Pr
ima," Hazel said softly. "The first wife."

  "Ma'am," Professor Meyerson said. "We've come for the children."

  Prima yanked the door wider. "Come in. Which one of you is the yellow-hair?"

  "She couldn't come," Hazel said. "She's getting medical treatment for her voice."

  "She abandoned her babies—abominations like her don't deserve children," Prima said.

  "Are they here?" Hazel asked.

  "Yes . . . but I'm not convinced they should go . . ."

  Hazel stepped forward. "Please—Prima—let the children come."

  "I'm not giving those sweet girls up to some disgusting heathen," Prima said. She had the taut look of someone willing to die for her convictions.

  "It's just me," Hazel said softly. "You know me; you know I'll take care of them."

  "You—you traitor!" Prima's face had gone from pale to red, and tears stood in her eyes.

  "No ma'am . . . but I had my family to think of—"

  "We were your family—we treated you like family—"

  "Yes, ma'am, you did. As well as you could. But back home—"

  "And you!" Prima turned on Professor Meyerson. "You're what—a woman soldier! Unnatural, disgusting—"

  "Actually, I'm a historian," Meyerson said. Prima looked blank. "I study Texas history."

  "You—what?"

  "That's right. I came to learn about you—about what you know of Texas history."

  Prima looked thoroughly confused, then focussed on Barin. "And you—who are you?"

  "Admiral Serrano's grandson," Barin said. Then, when Prima seemed not to understand, he said, "The woman you may have seen in transmission—dark, like me, with silver hair? She's commanding the task force."

  "A woman? Commanding men? Nonsense. No men would obey her—"

  "I do," Barin said. "Both as admiral and as my grandmother."

  "Grandmother . . ." Prima shook her head. "Still . . . do any of you have a belief in God?"

  "I do," Barin said. "It is not the same as yours, but in my family we have always had believers."

  "Yet you are a soldier alongside women? Commanded by women?"

  "Yes, sometimes."

  "How can that be? God decreed that women bear no arms, that they enter into no conflicts."

  "That is not the doctrine I have been taught," Barin said.

  "You are a pagan who believes in many gods?"

  "No, in one only."

  "I do not understand." Prima looked closely into his face. "Yet I see truth in your face; you are not a liar. Tell me, are you married?"

  "Not yet, ma'am, but I plan to be."

  "To a . . . another of these woman soldiers?"

  "Yes." If he survived this. He wished very much Esmay were with him.

  "Do you swear to me, on the holy name of God, that you are taking them to their families?"

  "Yes," Barin said. Prima deflated; her face creasing into tears. Barin moved nearer. "Let me tell you about their families, ma'am, so that you will understand. Brandy and Stassi—Prudence and Serenity, as you call them—have aunts and uncles. Their dead mother's sisters and brother; their father's sister. Paolo's grandfather and uncle, and Dris's aunt and uncle. We have brought recordings of them, asking for the safe return of these children."

  "They are happy here," Prima said. She looked down and away; she had the look of someone who will argue to the end but knows she cannot win. "It will hurt them to move them now."

  "They are happy now," Professor Meyerson said. "They are small children, and I know—Hazel told us—that you have been kind to them. But they will grow older, and you are not, and cannot, be the same as their own family. They need to know their own flesh and blood."

  "They will cry," Prima said, through her own tears.

  "They may," Professor Meyerson said. "They have had a difficult few years, losing their parents and then coming to such a different place, and leaving it again. They cried when they came here, didn't they? But in the end, all children cry over something, and that is not reason enough to leave wrong as it is, and good undone."

  "I am undone," Prima said, folding her apron. "But I had to try—"

  "You are a loving mother," Professor Meyerson said. Barin was surprised at this; he had not thought of Meyerson as having, or caring about, families. Yet her tone of absolute approval seemed to settle Prima. "I want you to see recordings of the children's families."

  "I don't have to—I believe you—"

  "No, but it may help you understand." She nodded to Barin, who set up the cube reader and display screen. "We have brought our own power supply, since your electrical lines carry the wrong voltage for our equipment."

  "This is men's work," Prima said.

  "God gave eyes to men and women," Professor Meyerson said. She put the first cube into the reader. "This is a recording of Brandy and Stassi's parents before they were killed."

  On the screen, a woman with a long dark braid over her shoulder cradled a baby in her arms. "That's when Stassi was born; their mother's name was Ghirian. Her parents were from Gilmore Colony. Brandy was a year old then." A man appeared, holding an older infant in his arms. "That's their father, Vorda. He and Ghirian had been married eight years. His family had been merchant spacers for generations."

  "They—were married?"

  "Oh yes. And very much in love, though I understand from Hazel that you do not value romantic love between men and women."

  "It doesn't last," Prima said, as if quoting. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, where the affection between mother and father, and parents and children, was obvious. "It cannot be depended on to make a strong family."

  "Not alone, no. But along with honesty and courage, it's a good start."

  The screen flickered, and now showed a slightly older Brandy, stacking blocks with an unsteady hand.

  Prima sucked her breath through her teeth. "Boy's toys—"

  "We value all the gifts God has given a child," Professor Meyerson said. "If God did not mean her to build, why would he have given her the ability? They sent this recording to her grandparents; her mother's father was a construction engineer in Gilmore. He was pleased that his granddaughter had inherited his gift." The child pushed the blocks over, gave a dimpled grin into the camera, and stood up, dancing in a circle. Then her mother came into view, carrying Stassi, now a wiggly toddler herself. She reached out and caught Brandy to her, gave her a little hug. Professor Meyerson turned up the sound of the cube reader.

  "—So we've decided to take them with us. Captain Lund says that'll be fine; there are two children about the same age, and a couple of older ones. The ship has a fully equipped nursery and playroom, with all the educational materials you could hope to see, so don't worry about them falling behind. It's as safe as being onplanet—safer, in some ways. No bugs!" The woman grimaced. "And no weather. I know, I know—you like the changing seasons, but with these two if it's not colds in winter it's allergies in summer."

  Professor Meyerson stopped the reader. "That was made just before they rejoined the Elias Madero, about a year before they died."

  "Was there sickness on the ship after all?"

  "No." Could she not know? Was it possible? She glanced at Hazel, who shook her head. "They were killed in the capture of the ship, ma'am."

  "No . . . it must have been an accident. Mitch would never kill women—"

  This was farther than they'd meant to go; they'd assumed the wives knew how outworld children were taken. Professor Meyerson said nothing, clearly at a loss to think how to put it. Prima blanched.

  "You think—you believe our men killed the parents, orphaned those children on purpose? Killed mothers? That's why you attacked us?"

  "They considered them perverts," Professor Meyerson said. "That's what was on the recordings."

  "I don't believe it! You're lying! You have no proof!" She grabbed Meyerson's arm. "Do you? Does your . . . your device show anything like that?"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Heads up—" Tha
t murmur in Barin's ear got his attention away from Prima. "May be trouble on the way—some kind of gathering across town—" A tiny picture flashed on the corner of his helmet display. Someone in a bright blue bathrobe or something similar yelling at a bunch of men.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," Barin said. "Do you know what this might be?" He transferred the image to the larger screen they'd been using for the cube reader.

  Prima glared at him, but turned to look. Her face paled. "It's Parson Wells—"

  "A parson is a religious leader," Professor Meyerson said with renewed confidence. "Amazing—look at that garment—"

  "It's a cassock," Prima said.

  "No, it's not a cassock," Meyerson said, as if correcting a child. "Cassocks were narrower, black, and buttoned up the front. This is the variant of academic regalia which was popular in one branch of Christianity—"

  "Professor . . . I don't think that's the most important thing."

  "But look at that—those men are carrying replica Bowie knives—and that looks like a replica of an actual twenty-first-century rifle—"

  "Professor—we need to get the children and get out of here," Barin said. "We don't want a conflict—we want them safe—"

  "Oh. Yes, of course." Meyerson flushed slightly. "Sorry. It's just—seeing things I've only read about before—it's quite exciting. I wish I had more time—"

  "Not this visit," Barin said. He turned to Prima. "Please, ma'am—the children?

  "Come with me, then." She was still angry, but clearly the view on the screen meant more to her than to the professor. "I want you to see where they were housed, how they were cared for, so you can tell their families—" She led the way down the corridor to the women's wing. Through windows, Barin saw a garden brilliant with flowers, centered by a fountain—then a wall, then another garden.

  "The children's garden," Hazel murmured. "The little girls were allowed to run about some there." It was empty now. The scent of warm, fresh-baked bread wafted along the corridor, as Prima opened another door. "Kitchen's down there—she's taking us to the sleeping area for the youngest—"