Elizabeth Moon - Change of Command

“Yes. I understand it, in a way. Venezia Morrelline had her pottery, and you had horses, and Kata Saenz had her research. Most people do have their private interests, and that, after all, is what a good political system is supposed to do—leave you free to do what you are best at, whatever it is. People want to do the work they love, marry and have children, have some fun. But if too many people do that, Cecelia, it leaves gaps for people who want power for its own sake, and who may use it in ways that later degrade your life.”

Like Bunny using Fleet resources as if they were personal, to rescue Brun. She didn’t say that; she knew that Miranda knew what people thought. “How is Kevil?” she asked instead.

“Alive.” From her tone, Cecelia couldn’t tell if Miranda were pleased about that or not. Then she sighed. “I can’t wish Kevil dead, only Bunny alive as well. Kevil was badly hurt—days in the regen tank, and then the head injury—he’s still not himself. He may never be, the doctors say. And without Bunny—or me, if I could only find a way—he doesn’t have the backing to do what he did for us before.”

“I should visit him,” Cecelia said.

“Yes, you should. You should tell him what you told me, with all the names you know. He might know something useful, something that would give us leverage.”

“And Brun?”

“Brun . . . has a crazy notion of changing her identity. Going to the Guernesi and getting a rejuv and biosculpt that will make her a new person from the bones out. I think she got the idea from the prince’s clones.”

“She doesn’t want the children,” Cecelia said, not asking.

“Would you?” Miranda shivered, then sighed. “No, she doesn’t want them. I don’t want them myself, really. Bunny did. Bunny had some crazy idea that they could grow up to prove their existence wasn’t a disaster, but it is.”

“That’s a lot of burden on them.”

“Yes. Unfair, too. I know that. But nothing can make them other than they are: bastards, Brun’s ruin, the ruin of all our hopes for the Familias. They are the lit fuse, poor little brats.”

“What are they like?”

“Babies. Toddlers, really, at this point. Neither looks like anyone in our family, and they aren’t identical. One has the brightest red hair I ever saw, and the other’s is brown. Brun says one of the men was a redhead. . . .”

Cecelia noticed that Miranda had not used names; before she could ask, Miranda went on.

“The gene scan showed up some interesting anomalies—according to one geneticist, who’s also looked at the women and other children, these people were seriously inbred, with a lot of undesirable recessives concentrated. They had noticed that children born of captured women were less likely to be disabled, but considered that as proof of their God’s blessing on capturing women. Of course, we had the boys treated at once, although it was too late for a complete washout.”

“What do you call them?” Cecelia finally got a word in.

Miranda blushed. “We don’t actually . . . have names. Brun never did, and she refuses to talk about it. Their nurses call them Red and Brownie. I know—” She held up a hand. “Those are names for dogs or ponies, not boys. Nicknames, at best. I just don’t—Bunny and I had been talking about it when he was killed.” She moved her cup restlessly. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.” Cecelia stood.

Down the hall, past several doors and now she could hear the crowing of a happy child, the chuckle of another. Miranda paused just before the open door. Cecelia looked in. Two young women in colorful smocks, a floor strewn with toys, and two sturdy toddlers. One, the redhead, was bouncing up and down, clapping his hands. The other, sitting in a scatter of blocks, looked quickly toward the door, grinning.

They were normal children, not monsters. Happy children, not monsters. Children who were more than “lit fuses”—who were potentially normal, if only they didn’t grow up burdened with a past they had not made.

“You have to send them away,” Cecelia said, surprising herself. “There are people who want children and don’t have them; there are places where these boys will be treasured as they should be.”

“Bunny said—”

“Bunny’s dead. They’re alive. They can have a good future—and the universe is big enough that they need not be anyone’s pawns in some power game.”

“And you know who—?” A tone suspended between sarcasm and hope.

“No, but I can find out. Will you let me do that? Find them homes where they’ll have a chance?”

Miranda sagged. “I . . . don’t know.”

“Miranda. You have other grandchildren, and will have more. Children you can love naturally. Children whose political importance, if any, comes with a family commitment. You haven’t even given these boys names —you know yourself that’s wrong. Give them up; give them a chance.”

“Brun wants to . . .” Miranda said. “She said . . . she doesn’t want to hate them, but she can’t live with them around. But neither of us can face the thought of an orphanage.”

“She’s right,” Cecelia said. “You said we were alike—we may be, that much. If I had borne them, in her circumstances, I’d have to give them up. It’s a big universe; they need never know.”

She left Miranda in the doorway and went on into the room, nodding to the nurses, and sitting on the floor. Red, his hair an orange flame, put a fat thumb in his mouth, but Brownie grinned at her. Cecelia pulled out the ring of keys from the stable and jingled it. His grin widened, and he came to her, grabbing for the keys. Though he looked little like Brun, his boldness and the sparkle in his blue eyes suggested Brun’s attitudes.

Cecelia did not think of herself as a religious person, but she found herself praying to something, somewhere, to give these boys a better life than their beginning.

“Lady Cecelia!” That was Brun; Cecelia turned.

“You look well,” she said. Brun looked well physically—her tall body trim and fit, her tumbled gold curls in a riot around her head. But the clear gaze was shadowed, darkening when she looked at the boys.

“I’m fine,” Brun said. “Considering everything.”

“I agree with you and your mother,” Cecelia said. “These boys need a proper home, not to mention names.”

Brun’s face stiffened, then she grinned. “Still tactful, I see.”

“As ever,” Cecelia agreed. “My dear, I’m almost ninety, and rejuvenation did nothing to soften my personality. Why don’t we do it today?”

“Today?” Both Miranda and Brun looked shocked; so did the nurses.

“They’re starting to talk; they understand even more. Every day you wait makes it harder on them.”

“I . . . want to be sure they have good homes . . . that they lack for nothing . . .” Brun said.

“A good home is a loving home,” Cecelia said, with all the confidence of the childless. “And right now they’re lacking the most basic needs of all—a name, a parent—”

“But what will you do with them?”

“Take them to a safe and loving home. Brun, you’ve known me all your life. Have I ever lied to you?” Brun shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. Miranda started to speak, but Cecelia waved her down. “I have told you the truth, even when it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. I tell you the truth now—if you let me have these boys I will see to it that they find a good home. I will do it myself. . . .”

“But your schedule—”

“Is my own. Miranda, you were twitting me with my self-indulgence. This is what self-indulgence is good for. I can help you, right now, because I have no other obligations in the way.” She softened her voice. “Please let me.”