Elizabeth Moon - Against the Odds

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.