"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.
This for the friends we had of old
Friends for a lifetime's love and cheer.
This for the friends who come no more
Who cannot be among us here.
We'll not forget, while we're alive,
These hallowed dead, these deeds of fame.
Where they have gone, we will follow soon
Into the darkness and the flame.
Then we shall rise, our duty done,
Freed from all pain and sorrow here,
We'll leave behind ambition's sting
And keep alive our honor dear.
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And they will stand beside us then
All whom we loved and hoped to see
And they shall sing, a glad AMEN
To cheer that final victory.
"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.
Bring me my bow of burning gold
"That's right," the man said in an undertone.
Bring me my arrows of desire
"That too."
Bring me my ship—O clouds unfold
"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.
Bring me my chariot of fire.
We shall not cease our faithful watch
Nor shall the sword sleep in our hand
Till we have gone beyond the stars
To join that fair immortal band.
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.
This for the friends we had of old . . .
THE END
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The Serrano Succession
Table of Contents
CHANGE OF COMMAND
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
AGAINST THE ODDS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Serrano Succession Page 89
