The Serrano Connection

by Elizabeth Moon

  Two sets of keys he was sure—almost sure—hadn't been used. At least three more, and he would be lucky if that was all . . .

  An explosion, up the street, and a gust of acrid smoke blew past, followed by the rattle of something hard on the house walls and the street. Before he could dare a cautious look, he heard the major in his earpiece.

  "Something just blew in that pretty little park up the block from you, Ensign. Looks like it took the top off that decorative star—"

  Barin looked out to see, through the cloud of dust and smoke, an ominous shape rising slowly from the bright red and yellow flowerbeds.

  "I think we found the nukes," he said, surprised at the even tone of his voice. "They had a silo under that thing. And somebody used both keys." For all the good it would do, he gestured to Prima to have everyone get down on the floor, and then replaced and locked his own helmet. He would like to have said goodbye to Esmay, but—

  "It's not moving any more," said the major. "What's your visual on it, Serrano?"

  Barin peered cautiously around the doorframe, wondering only then why he'd left the door open. "It's—about thirty feet above ground, and . . . not moving."

  "Waiting an ignition signal?" asked another voice in his ear.

  "Don't know. Our birds would be out and flying by now," said the major. "Is this just a way to blow up the city?"

  Pleasant thought. He had not thought of that, and hoped very much that hypothesis was wrong.

  The first armored transport, back for another load, ground its way around the corner, as if nothing else mattered, and paused by the door. Barin shrugged: if that thing blew where it was, it wouldn't matter whether people were in the house or the transport—they'd be safely dead. He nodded at Prima, who pointed at heads until the transport driver insisted not one more would fit in.

  "Shuttles incoming—" Of course, if it blew as the shuttles were landing, all those would die too. His decision to save more lives just might be the cause of losing more lives.

  And he'd asked for command track.

  One after another, the shuttles left shockwaves that rattled the windows and sounded like heavier guns than any that had spoken yet. He counted—two, four, six . . . how many were they sending in one flight? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—they must have stripped every shuttle from Navarino, and most from the other ships as well. Thirteen . . . the rolling thunder went on, and he lost count. Well, if you were going to commit to something, you committed in strength.

  Now a nearer roar, with an unpleasant groaning whine to it.

  "Troop drop." He peeked out again, to see the first shuttle doing a low flyby, its drop bay open and marines falling, then steadying on their gravpads, to form up with the others. A blinding-bright bar of blue light stabbed across, toward the north. A second shuttle, this one fatter and even slower, crawled past with its cargo bay open and disgorging dark blots he hoped were more weapons and some faster transport. A distant loud rumble suggested that other shuttles were landing.

  "Equipment—" On grav sleds, big enough to hold twenty armored troops . . . steering carefully down to the wide streets around the central plaza. Once they'd gone to open green rules, attempts to match technology to that of the planet had gone by the boards. Well, it would be quicker . . .

  Another distant crump, and another, and a column of black smoke—Barin could almost feel sympathy for the men with their rifles and their long knives. A grav sled settled outside the door, and its six occupants rolled off, leaving room for the women and children.

  Prima had them ready, and sent them out the door without a word. "First shuttle's off," Barin heard in his ear. So the original mission was accomplished, if they got those safely to a ship. The grav sled took off, with a whine and a whirl of dust; the next settled in its place, and Prima directed a file out to it.

  "We're loading in all the streets," Barin heard. He could see, from the door, the sleds landing and taking off in three of the streets around the plaza. He glanced around, and saw that one more sled load would do it for this house. "It's your turn," he said to Prima.

  "She's not goin'," a male voice said. "She deserves to die, the murderin' whore." The scrawny man, the one he had not liked but had ignored after the first glance, had his long knife out, and held to Prima's neck. Her eyes looked at him, a look that might have been warning, but was not fear.

  Then the neuro-enhanced female marine who'd been checking the back rooms broke his arm like a soda straw, smashed him into the wall, and caught Prima before she fell. Her neck bled—but not the lethal spurt of a severed artery. The marine slapped a field dressing on it. Prima looked at Barin.

  "You're a good protector," she said, then quickly lowered her eyes.

  "No, she is," Barin said, nodding to the marine, who pushed up her faceplate so that Prima could see. Prima stared.

  "You're . . . a woman?"

  "Yup. And a mother, too. Hang in there, lady, you're gonna be fine."

  The last load went quickly; Barin swung aboard the grav sled and watched others loading and taking off as they swung above the city and headed for the spaceport. There he found, instead of the chaos he expected, a perfectly ordinary Landing Force Traffic Control section. "Ah—Ensign Serrano's last load, fine. Bay 23, that'll finish that shuttle load—"

  Bay 23 had a shuttle labelled R.S.S. Shrike. Barin helped his passengers from the grav sled to the interior with its narrow benches designed for troops in armor, not civilians in dresses. He started helping them strap in, ignoring the pounding of his heart which had speeded up at the thought of seeing Esmay again.

  "Barin!"

  His heart stopped completely, then raced on again. She was there, alive and well, waving from the front. He nodded, grinning but speechless with feeling, and went on with his work. He felt the shuttle lurch, then the lump-lump-lump of the wheels on the runway.

  "You know her?" Prima asked him, a hand on his wrist.

  "Yes. She's—" How could he say it to her? He didn't even know what words would make clear to her what his culture meant by engagement. Prima's eyes flicked to his face, then back down. She nodded.

  "I will be an obedient second wife," Prima said. "After you execute my husband Mitchell."

  Barin could think of nothing whatever to say to that, and the rising thunder of the shuttle engines made further conversation impossible anyway.

  Far below, as the last shuttles rose into the sky, the men at last made it to the Rangers' houses, the armory, the meeting hall. The houses were empty, but for a dead man or two in each; and the keys—the keys they needed so badly—were missing.

  Mitchell Pardue had been told that his wives and children were safe, but he hadn't believed it. Not until Prima stood before him, properly barefoot but quite improperly dressed in a bright orange shipsuit with a sheet tied around it for a skirt.

  "We have a new protector," she told him. She glanced at his face, then down respectfully. "Of the Serrano family."

  "Prima—you can't just—"

  "I reckon you lied to me, husband," Prima said. She looked at him again, this time steadily. "You said they was all orphans. You said those outlander women was all you ever found. You never told me you killed parents, in front of their children, that you killed women, even mothers."

  "I—"

  "As far as I'm concerned, they might as well mute you, Mitchell Pardue, because if your tongue cannot speak the truth, why speak at all?"

  And after that, he found he had little need to speak, and no one to speak to. In a last act of kindness that tore his heart, his captors showed him video of his children playing in the ship's gymnasium.

  They were almost to the Security station at the Fleet entrance to Rockhouse Major when they spotted the crowds on the other side of the barrier. The security detail moved on ahead to take up their positions.

  "Oh Lord, the media!" Brun's new voice, still furry and softer than it had been, but strengthening steadily. Esmay glanced over at her.

  "You knew it would be here."<
br />
  "I suppose so, but I could hope. And you know, I used to love being the top newsflash attraction."

  "Well, Barin can almost top you this time," Esmay said, with a wicked smirk.

  Barin flushed. "I do not really have nineteen wives—"

  "No, but do you think the media cares? It's a great story."

  "Esmay—"

  "I wouldn't tease him," Brun said. "After all, you could be a sensation yourself—"

  "Not me, I'm the plain one."

  "I don't think so. Landbride Suiza in love with a man encumbered by nineteen fanatic cultists, and having gone from villainess of my abduction to hero of the rescue force? We might as well face it—we're all condemned to a spot on the evening news."

  "So . . . what's your advice, O experienced target of the press?"

  "Relax and enjoy it," Brun said. "In fact—let's give them a real show. After all, it's ours. We're heroes of the hour—let's do it right."

  "I hesitate to ask," Barin said, with a glance at Esmay. "Do you know what she means?"

  "No," Esmay said, "and I don't want to, but we will."

  "Link arms and I'll show you," Brun said.

  "We can't do that; we're sober, serious professionals, Fleet officers—" But Brun had already grabbed her arm, and they came out of the gate like a trio of chorus dancers, into the lights and hubbub.

  "All we have to worry about," Brun was saying brightly, eyes sparkling, golden curls tossing, "is pirates, thieves, traitors, smugglers, assassins, and the occasional nutcase."

  Esmay looked past Brun to Barin. "Do you want to duck her in the fountain, or shall I?"

  "Let's do it together," Barin said, suggestively.

  "Always," Esmay said.

  THE END

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