Elizabeth Moon - Against the Odds

It was serious if you didn’t tip grooms, too. Cecelia looked at the set of Heris’s jaw and said no more.

“Shipboard promotions, the newly promoted get a measure of drink chits to give out—same for each of the group being promoted. Dockside, they usually give cash tokens—even if most of the bars won’t take ’em and would rather charge a credit cube. Anyway, admirals are supposed to do a bit more. Now I took care of the food part, but we still have to get through the saluting part. These are tokens I had made up, not for this but for another purpose. They’ll do. How old are you, anyway?”

“How old am I?”

“Yes. See, admirals pay by the year. You have to take and honor as many so-called first salutes as years of your age.”

Cecelia thought fast. “On which planet?”

“Be serious. Never cheat your people.”

“I don’t honestly know. Eighty-something—maybe ninety by now . . . ?”

“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!”