"You were after . . . the prince? You wanted the prince?"
"Yes, of course. And the clones. The Benignity thought that would give leverage . . . I didn't want you hurt, or that old lady, actually. Her poisoning wasn't a Benignity plan; that's why they killed the poisoner."
"But Arash . . ." It was useless. If he thought he'd have a good life with the Benignity . . . She squeezed her eyes shut. She had been so happy to find out that Petris was on Livadhi's ship—she had trusted Livadhi to care for his crew as she cared for them. And now . . . he was taking them to certain death, one way or the other.
She tried again. "Why not take a shuttle? I'll let you go; you'll be safe—they'll can me, but that's happened before. And your crew"—my crew—"will be safe. You can trust me not to fire on you."
"No," Livadhi said. "I need the cruiser and its crew. That's my ticket home."
She could hardly believe, even now, how coldblooded he was. "Come on," she said. "You're an admiral; they'd be glad to have you if you arrived in your underwear."
"No, Heris, they would not." He seemed to be picking his words as if they were berries among thorns. "It is their opinion that I have not, heretofore, justified their investment in me. That is almost their exact phraseology. I must bring the cruiser and its crew—they don't want the crew, but they want to be sure the cruiser isn't booby-trapped."
Away from the audio pickups, someone murmured, "Captain—" and when she glanced aside, held up a board with the number so far evacuated on it. She looked back at Livadhi.
"How about the crew, Livadhi? Did you think how they're going to react, now they know you've sold them over to the Benignity? Can you really keep control of them until you get there? Do you think they'll let the ship go without a fight?"
"Thanks to you and Suiza, probably not. Blast it, Serrano, it's all your fault anyway." Back to that, where he would stick until the end, she realized.
"Is Petris in your cabin with you?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. I couldn't trust him elsewhere," Livadhi said. "Do you want to see him?" And before she could answer, he'd turned the video pickup around. Petris sat slumped in a chair on the other side of the desk. He had a vacant, vague expression, so utterly wrong for that reckless face that Heris could not repress a gasp of dismay.
"A touch of pharmaceutical quietude," Livadhi said; he turned the pickup back to himself and his grin was feral. "He's too dangerous, and besides, I'd had my fun twitting him. He's besotted with you, you know. Though he's not up to your weight."
Her mouth had gone dry; she could not speak. Over half the crew had been taken off, and stuffed like salt fish into Rascal's compartments and passages. The shuttles were even now loading again—this load would have to make the longer traverse to Indefatigable, unless they were left dangling on the ropes trailed from Rascal's transfer tube. She knew that if she microjumped closer, Livadhi would press that red button under his thumb. He might anyway.
Petris was dead already. She could see no way of getting him out—Livadhi could push that button before anyone could get into the compartment, even if there had been someone to do it. She raged inwardly at whoever was in Environmental—couldn't they have thought to pump in some narcotic gas? But the flag offices probably had their own separate ventilation system, complete with secured oxygen tanks, for just such possibilities.
All she could do was keep Livadhi talking, as the slow shuttles went and came, ferrying off one meagre load at a time. Maybe—maybe—Petris would be the only innocent to die.
But even as she thought this, Livadhi's gaze turned from her to one of the screens beside him, that she could not see. His eyes widened; he paled. "They're running away! Evacuating! NO! I will not let you win, Serrano."
And his thumb went down.
* * *
"I regret to inform you—" The old formula made it possible to say, but not easier. "Commodore Livadhi just blew up Vigilance. Rascal was much closer than we are; they may have damage. We hope there will be survivors; we are now going to mount a search and rescue effort."
"I ask you all to remain calm, and carry out your duties; when we have word on survivors, you will be informed. For the duration of the rescue, launch bays and medical are cut out of the internal communications net: if you have a medical problem, contact your unit commander, who can contact the bridge."
"Captain, we've got a line back to Rascal—"
"—only minor damage, Captain Serrano. But we can't stuff any more in here. I do have a debris plot—"
"Thank you, Captain Suiza. Any sight of those shuttles?" Hardened combat shuttles should be able to survive, if not hit by anything too big. The officers' shuttles, however . . .
"Yes, sir. One at least is whole, but appears to be tumbling out of control. Haven't spotted the others—wait—Koutsoudas says he has 'em."
"We're coming in, but slowly—" Shields up, to avoid damage from debris, much more slowly than she wanted. Please, please let them be alive. More of them. Most of them. All of them, if it's possible, please—
She waited a few minutes on the bridge to deal with any questions from the section commanders, but none came. So, with a last nod at her exec, she went to her office across the passage. There she copied and sealed the scan records, and began her own detailed report for Fleet, as she waited for the first reports on rescue attempts. Petris was dead. Livadhi had "fun" with him—she could imagine what Livadhi had said, how Petris must have felt. And she had come too late, with no miracles, without the chance to tell him what she felt.
The hours crawled by. She acknowledged the first report of success: the tumbling shuttle found, boarded, survivors—most badly injured—stabilized as well as possible. Another shuttle, its hatch open (had it been loading at the moment of destruction?), and all aboard dead. Another, all aboard alive, com mast destroyed, but the pilot had been able to guide it toward Rascal.
Her com beeped; she answered, trying to concentrate on item 16(f) in her report, and a voice said, "Captain, do you want lunch in your office, or over here?"
She started to refuse lunch, but experience said eat now or pay later. "Soup and bread," she said, answering the unasked question. "In my office."
"Five minutes, then, Skipper."
The soup tasted flat, and the bread stale. She ate anyway, knowing it was important, alternating two spoonfuls of soup with a bite of bread. He was dead. He was dead forever. He hadn't even been able to hear her, see her, in the moment before he died. All he'd heard had been Livadhi's poisonous words; all he'd seen was Livadhi's arrogant face.
Someone tapped on the door. "Come in," Heris said, glad of anything to break the mood. The door opened, and Methlin Meharry stood there in a rumpled p-suit.
"I'm sorry, Captain," she said. "I couldn't get him out—"
"I know," Heris said. Her eyes filled with tears; she blinked them back. "I know."
"I should've killed that scum-sucking toad the moment I felt that twitch in my gut," Meharry said. "It would've saved us a lot of trouble."
"You did the best you could," Heris said.
"Seemed like it at the time, but now—y'know, if it wasn't for the mutiny—we all worried about starting trouble on the ship, in case we got into combat—"
"It's not your fault," Heris said.
"I know. But dammit, Captain—I know how you felt about him."
"Yes, and I'm going to grieve and cry at the wake . . . but I was lucky to have his love, and that's what I'll remember. I'm not going to let a traitor rob me of that memory, and it's not going to ruin my life." She said it to comfort Meharry, but all at once she felt better herself. It wouldn't last, she knew—the pain would come back, the loss—but that instant's memory of his laughing face in the sunlight, years ago on Sirialis, brought only joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Winter rains had finally come to the main Fleet base at Copper Mountain, one front after another dumping snow on the higher elevations and a cold, stinging rain lower down. Q-town glittered in the lights of
celebrating bars and restaurants and stores, streets freshly swept by another squall of rain and a bitter wind that rushed people off the street and into shelter.
Inside Diamond Sim's, the main room was crowded with men and women in Fleet uniforms: almost all the tables were full, with a line of people at the bar.
"Just what we need," Oblo said, "a politician horning in on our celebration. By the time our officers get here, we'll all be falling on the floor." Fleet personnel in and around Copper Mountain had chosen this bar for a joint celebration. Crowded as it already was, it would get worse—standing room only by the time they came to the toasts.
"The Speaker isn't just any politician."
"Politicians are politicians," Oblo said. It was not his first mug that stood half empty on the table at his elbow. Methlin Meharry, across from him, shook her head. Her younger brother Gelan sat beside her, newly promoted and decorated for his part in defeating the mutiny. He was still a bit stiff with her shipmates.
At one end of the long bar, a group of civilians clustered around a balding older man in a ridiculous yellow leather jacket like a costume out of a play.
"Like him," Oblo said, gesturing with his mug. "What's he doing here, dressed like that? Is this a costume party, or a proper wake?"
"He saved me," Gelan said, leaning forward. "He's a scientist—and he and the others stole a troop carrier from the mutineers to get the secret stuff from the weapons research lab on Stack Three. They've earned their night out."
"If you say so," Oblo said.
"Who's the redhead?" asked Methlin.
"Ensign Pardalt. She's another one that was on the plane that picked me up, and she was the professor's bodyguard. I heard from the rest of them that she saved his life. Besides that, she put together some kind of signalling device that put the word out about the mutiny."
"She did that? Where's she from? What's her specialty?"
"Xavier. Got a Fleet scholarship after that. She's a junior instructor here."
"Waste of talent," Oblo said. "She sounds like another Suiza."
"Prettier," Methlin said.
"Careful," Oblo said, nodding to a young officer a table away. "Young Serrano won't like to hear that."
"Young Serrano won't even notice," Methlin said. "He's far too involved. She's a looker, Ensign Pardalt. And that fat old man knows it."
"He's that kind, then?"
"No . . . I'd say he's using her honey to bait his trap for the people he wants to talk to. Oh, he'll flirt, but my guess is he's thoroughly attached elsewhere."
The outer door opened again, and a new group stood blinking rain out of their eyes. Oblo, facing the door, raised a cheer. "There she is! Cap'n—over here!" But there was another cheer, this time bringing the Serrano table to its feet: "Suiza! Suiza!"
Heris Serrano and Esmay Suiza, side by side, came into the room, and behind them was a phalanx of Serrano admirals around a blonde woman in civilian dress and a redhead in uniform.
Oblo gaped. "What?" said Meharry.
"It's—Brun," he said. "Brun Meager-Thornbuckle. She's—it must be she's on the staff, or something . . . and Lady Cecelia."
Methlin turned to look. "By—it is. And—Oblo, look—Heris has her stars!"
"Fff . . . and they didn't ask us to the ceremony."
The Serrano Admiralty, now increased by one, created a wave of silence that flowed from the nearest tables to the far corners, so that the words of the last speaker, an ensign explaining how he'd won a battle, rang far louder than he'd intended: "And then the exec said if I hadn't been there and remembered to shut the ARTI valve, he didn't know what might have happened, but it wouldn't have been good . . ." His voice trailed away as he craned around to see why silence had fallen.
One of the Serrano Admiralty—a tall, hawk-faced man with a scar from cheek to chin, spoke into the silence. "An ARTI valve? How big was the hole in the line?"
The youngster was on his feet, gulping. "A—a—only a pinhole, sir, they found afterwards."
"Well, then, if you hadn't shut it off, you'd have had very high pressure fluid shooting out and slicing things. Like any of your shipmates in the way."
The young man said no more. Admiral Vida Serrano stepped forward. "We ask your courtesy—may we join you?"
"Certainly, sirs." That was Sim, whose hoverchair had the ability to get through spaces difficult for those afoot. "You're most welcome." He cocked his head at Heris. "Are we celebrating a promotion as well?"
"Yes," one of the senior admirals said. "We lost an admiral minor, in Arash Livadhi; we decided we needed another one."
"Congratulations," Sim said.
Heris handed over her credit cube. "The traditional," she said.
"Right, and thank you, Admiral."
When the group moved forward, into the room, Brun lagged behind. She faced the scarred man in the hoverchair squarely. "You told me I had much to learn," she said. "You were right."
"I heard," he said. "I was sorry I'd been so rough with you, seeing what came to you after."
"No . . . you were right at the time, and I needed to hear it. Too bad I didn't learn sooner. Men died because of it." She fished in her bag. "This is a piece of the yacht I was on when I was captured, where my father's men died defending me. Would it—could you possibly—keep it here?"
"I'd be honored," he said. "Do you have their names?"
"Yes—here's a cube that has their names, and pictures, and all for your database. They're worth remembering."
"Everyone is, sera."
"Yes. I know that now."
"I believe you do." His glance, once so challenging, softened. "You're welcome here, sera. You qualify on all counts."
She felt the heat in her face, but met his eyes steadily. "Thank you. I'll do my best to stay qualified."
"I believe you will." He hefted the fragments she'd given him. "Now—go join your friends; it's a pleasure to have you back."
Brun edged between the crowded tables to reach the Serrano crowd, just in time to see Barin and Esmay in a clinch that brought wolf whistles from half the room. A pang struck her: she had never yet loved anyone like that, and she didn't know if she ever would. The fashion-critical side of her mind wanted to carp that Esmay badly needed a new cut again—or something—her hair was still so short there wasn't room for much styling. But she knew that didn't matter to Esmay or Barin or anyone else in the room. Lovers reunited, heroes at the top of their form . . . she glanced at Heris, who was not reunited with her love. But Heris was grinning at them. "What a pair! One sight of each other and you lose all professional decorum."
Esmay turned. "Professional decorum is for ships, sir. This is a bar."
Everyone laughed, including Heris. "Esmay, you're going to suit this family just fine."
"Esmay, I'm so sorry I caused you all that trouble," Vida said. "Old admirals should never be annoyed and then bored; they will get into trouble."
"About the history—"
"That's for historians," Vida said firmly. "Yes, it needs to be studied and known, but there's a time to give up the question of who's to blame, and the quarrels and the shooting, and get on to what we're going to do now. In my view, what we do now is give you and Barin a proper wedding, with a reception where we—your family and ours and as many friends as we can pack together—can all eat and drink and tell stories."
"Hear! Hear!" came shouts from tables who weren't even sure what the issue was, but heard "eat and drink and tell stories" clearly.
At that moment, serving doors opened, and waiters began passing platters of food hand to hand, from the back of the room to the front, until the tables filled with food.
"You didn't mean now!" Esmay said to Vida.
"No—your family isn't here. This is just Heris's promotion party. First she feeds us, then she gets us drunk—"
"If I can," Heris said. "If the credit holds out."
"Consider it a rehearsal," Sabado said, leering at Esmay. "Gives you some idea how it's going to be f
or your family to host the reception."
"Not a problem," Esmay said, "if you'll come to Altiplano. We're good at feasts, and we have plenty of room."
"You picked a brave one, Barin," Sabado said.
"I know," Barin said. "But that's not the only reason—" Esmay turned red, and the others roared. "But it's one reason," he said, above the laughter. In Esmay's ear he said, "They're impossible. They're determined to embarrass us."
"Blushes won't kill me," Esmay said. "I'm not going to run from them."
"Good. Have I told you how proud I am of you—catching Livadhi like that?"
"I didn't do it alone—" Esmay began.
Barin snorted. "Esmaya, don't start that. Of course you didn't go paddling after him bare-naked and alone through interstellar space—"
She giggled, surprising herself.
"But you listened—you understood—you took action."
"I had to."
"Yes. Why I love you. You do the hard things you have to do, always. I can trust you for it."
She hugged him again. "And you—I heard about you, too. I was so worried—"
"I was scared," Barin said. "Then I was too busy to be scared." He wasn't scared or jealous either one, he realized. He glanced over to the bar, caught the professor's eye, and nodded.
* * *
Cecelia had not hesitated; whatever the others might think, she had no concern about being unwelcome. She didn't know all the Serranos, but she knew Oblo and Meharry. She made her way to their table. Oblo heaved himself up, moved the line of people to his right with a glare, then moved his chair and offered it to her. He crouched beside her in the space he'd made.
"Lady Cecelia, ma'am, what are you doing wearing a Fleet uniform with stars on? You can't make me believe they made you an admiral."
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