Elizabeth Moon - Against the Odds

“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 for 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.”

“Not . . . exactly.” Cecelia grinned. Oblo was going to like this story. “Remember back on Xavier, when that young lieutenant on Sweet Delight thought I must be an officer in covert ops?”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, Miranda and I were captured by the mutineers—”

“What?!”

“Are you all right, milady?” Meharry asked.

“I’m fine. Miranda’s dead. Let me tell you—”

“’Scuse me, may I join you?” Cecelia looked up to see Chief Jones, with a mug already in hand.

“Of course!” she said. “You can help me tell this—you know Oblo Vissisuan, don’t you? And Methlin Meharry?”

“I’ve heard,” Jones said. “Heris Serrano’s crew, right? And you survived a takeaway with that Livadhi admiral minor?”

“’Sright,” Oblo said. “You helped out Lady Cecelia, did you?”

“She broke us out of the brig,” Jones said. “Go on, tell them. That bit’s your story.”

The whole table was leaning forward, straining to hear, when Cecelia got to the critical part with the mop handles; someone started to laugh and choked it off.

“Then,” Jones put in, “these two dragged the dead man back to use his finger on the lock to get us out.”

“So how’d you get off the ship?” Meharry asked. “ Bonar Tighe —where’d they put the brig on that model? Didn’t it still have the old combat control center mucking up the design?”

“Right. What we did was break into the damage control lockers and start improvising.”

A moment of relative silence at their table, while people retrieved their own memories of what equipment could be found in damage control lockers. Before they could start talking, Jones went on. Cecelia admired her gift for storytelling; she knew just how to set the story up. It sounded better this way, in a roomful of friendly people, with all the noise around them. Jones held them spellbound, all the way to, “And there she was, breaking off sensor petals and tossing them away, chanting They kill us . . . they kill us not . . .”

“And then I got tied up in tangleweb,” Cecelia said, “and had to be handled like a holiday parcel.”

“Yeah, but the uniform,” Oblo said. “Not that I’m fussy or anything, you know me, but—” He touched the star on her shoulder. “That’s real.”

“That’s your Heris,” Cecelia said. “She needed a . . . er . . . bit more authority than she had. So . . . she suggested it. Jones here coached me.”

“She had the command presence already, when she wanted it,” Jones said. “All we had to do was get her to quit talking about everything in terms of horses.”

“It’s my cover,” Cecelia said.

“When did they promote her?” Oblo jerked his head towards Heris. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

“As for when, about twenty minutes ago, over at the headquarters of the school. As for why no crowd, she knew you were already over here, everyone she cared about, and even for a Serrano getting her star, they can’t do it in a bar. She was annoyed.”

“That sounds like her,” Oblo said. “She knows how it’s supposed to be.”

Cecelia looked at Methlin Meharry, and the young man beside her . . . “Is that a relative of yours?”

“My baby brother,” Meharry said. “Gelan. He was here when it started. He killed Bacarion.”

“Who?”

“She’d taken over the prison, the one where they had me and Oblo. If he’d listened to his big sister, he wouldn’t have gotten into that mess, but at least he remembered what to do about it.”

Gelan turned red. “Methi—”

“Methi,” Cecelia said. “Is that your nickname?” She waited for the explosion that seemed to be brewing.

“Even I don’t call her that,” Oblo said, in a tone of spurious virtue.

“See what you’ve done?” Methlin thumped her brother on the head. “Troublemaking scamp.” But she was grinning, the dangerous glint hiding again in those sleepy green eyes.

Heris leaned over Cecelia suddenly. “Methlin, good—you found your brother. I’ve heard good things about you, young man. Think you might want to do ship duty again someday?”

“Yes, sir! I’m hoping to be assigned with Lieutenant Serrano, sir.”

“Oh.” Heris looked startled. “Well, I suppose one Meharry is enough. Oblo, could you find the rest of the Vigilance survivors for me? It’s time.”

“Right, sir.” Oblo edged his way past her.

Heris leaned closer. “Cecelia, we have a little tradition for new admirals . . . I hope you’ll join in. You are, after all, a new admiral.”

“I knew this was going to get me in trouble,” Cecelia said.

“Oh, we’re in this together,” Heris said. “Come on, now—” She offered a hand.

“I’m not senile,” Cecelia said, struggling against the ever-thickening crowd. “Just old.”

“Good. We have to go outside.”

“Why? It’s raining, it’s cold, it’s—”

“Tradition,” Heris said. “And here—” She handed over a bag of something heavy and clinking.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

“If they’d done my promotion ceremony properly, we wouldn’t have to go through this, but they had to rush . . . it’s like this. You know—don’t interrupt, you do know, because I’m telling you—that after a promotion an officer owes a token to the first enlisted personnel who salutes the new rank.”

“Really? It sounds like the owner tipping grooms after—”

“Get your mind off horses, Cece. This is serious.”