Elizabeth Moon - Once a Hero

Of course the parade still had horses, even though she was in a car. From the protection of the car, she watched the perfectly drilled cavalry swing into position before and behind, the horses moving in unison, their glossy haunches bunching and relaxing. The riders, their backs upright, hands quiet, faces set in a neutral expression that would not vary if a horse stood up on its hind legs . . . not that one of those well-trained animals would. Beyond the horses, a crowd on the sidewalks, faces peering from the windows of the taller buildings. Some of them waved the gold and red Altiplano colors.

She had not been home for just over ten standard years. She had left as a gawky teenager, who in memory seemed the very model of adolescent incapacity. Nothing had fit, not her body nor her mind nor her emotions. From not fitting at home to not fitting in the Fleet prep school had been a tiny, natural transition. By the time she had graduated from the Academy, she had expected to be the odd one out, the one whose reactions were not natural.

She had not realized how much those feelings had been due to age and then the real displacement of leaving her home world before her adult identity had solidified. Now, in the light of Altiplano’s sun, with her body held by Altiplano’s gravity, she began to relax, feeling at home in a way she had not since she was a little girl. The colors were right in a way they had not been for years; her very bones knew that this gravity, not one standard G, was the right gravity.

When she stepped out of the car, and walked up the red stone steps of the palace, her feet found the right intervals without effort. These steps were the right height, the right depth; this stone felt solid enough; this doorway welcomed; this air—she took another long breath—this air smelled right, and felt right all the way down to the bottom of her lungs.

She looked around at the people now crowding into the hall around her. Humans were humans, but the shapes of humans varied with their genome and the worlds they lived on. Here the bone structure looked familiar; these were the faces she had known all her life, prominent cheekbones and brows, long jutting chins, eyes set deeply under thick eyebrows. These long arms and legs, big bony hands and feet, boxy joints—these were her people, her look. Here she fit in, at least physically.

“Ezzmaya! S’oort semzz zalaas!” Esmay turned; her ears had already adapted to the Altiplano dialect, even in her family’s less-obvious form, and she had no trouble understanding the welcome she’d just been given. She didn’t immediately recognize the wizened old man in front of her, stiffly upright and wearing the brilliant braid of a former senior NCO, but her father’s senior aide murmured into her earplug. Retired master sergeant Sebastian Coron . . . of course. He had been part of her life as far back in childhood as she could remember, always crisp and correct, but with a twinkle for his commander’s elder daughter.

Her tongue, hearing the familiar speech, curled into the trills without her having to think of it. She thanked him for his congratulations in the formal phrases that brought a broader grin to his face. “And your family—your bodysons and heartdaughters? And don’t I remember that you have grandlings now?”

Before he could answer, her father had extended his own hand to Coron. “You can come visit later,” her father said. “We need to get her upstairs—” Coron nodded, gave Esmay a stiff short bow, and stepped back. As her father led her away, he said “I hope you don’t mind—he’s so proud of you, you’d think he was your father. He wanted to come—”

“Of course I don’t mind.” She glanced up the green-carpeted stairs. She had always loved the stained glass window on the landing, that poured rich gold and blood-colored light onto the carpet. Palace guards in black and gold stood stiff as the banister rails, staring at nothing. As a child, she had wondered whether they would be so stiff if tickled, but she’d never had the chance . . . or the daring . . . to try it. Now she climbed past them, bemused by the mixture of memories and present feelings.

“And he wants to hear about it direct from you—at least some of it . . .”

“That’s fine,” said Esmay. She would rather tell old Coron than any of the fresh-faced young militia officers now surrounding them. Coron had taught her more of the basics than her father probably knew; she had pored over the handbooks on small-unit tactics under his watchful eye all one summer down in Varsimla.

“He does get a bit carried away,” her father went on. “But he saved my skin often enough.” He looked ahead to the upper hall, where a cluster of men in formal dress waited in a semicircle. “Ah . . . there we are. The Long Table advisors—did you have time in the car—?”

She had not, but that’s what the earplugs were for. Most of them were men she had met before, in the way that the children of a household meet distinguished guests. She would not have remembered that Cockerall Mordanz was Advisor on Marine Resources, but she did remember that he’d once fallen off during a polo game and her uncle Berthol’s pony had neatly jumped over him. The current Long Table Host, Ardry Castendas Garland, had once slipped coming into their dining room, and knocked over the little table with the hot towels on it; her great-grandmother had scolded her for staring.

“Esmay—Lieutenant Suiza!” the Host said now, catching himself and returning to the formality appropriate to the ceremony. “It is an honor . . .” His voice trailed away, and Esmay allowed herself an interior smile. Altiplano lacked the right honorific for someone like her: female, a military officer, a hero. She felt conflicting impulses to help him out, and to let him stew in his problem: they, after all, had wanted to make her a hero. Let them come up with something. “My dear,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, but I keep remembering the sweet child you were. It’s hard to grasp what you’ve become.”

Esmay could cheerfully have slapped him. Sweet child! She had been a sulky, awkward teenager, the successor to an awkward child . . . not sweet, but difficult and strange. And what she was now should be simple enough to grasp: a junior officer of the Regular Space Service.

“It’s clear enough,” said another man, one she didn’t recognize. Opposition Leader, her earplug said. Orias Leandros. He smiled at her, but the smile was intended for the Host. He would make political profit of her . . . he thought.

“Host Garland,” Esmay said quickly. She didn’t like either of them, but she knew where her family duty lay. “You can be no more amazed at my present predicament than I am. My father tells me you plan an award—but, you must realize, you do me too much honor.”

“Not at all,” Garland said, back in balance again. He shot the briefest glare at his rival. “It’s obvious that your family inheritance of military ability continues down the generations. No doubt your sons—” He stopped, trapped again in the assumptions of Altiplano and the usual phrases. What would have been a fine compliment to a man sounded almost indecent applied to a woman.

“It has been so long,” Esmay said, changing the subject before Orias Leandros could say anything damaging. “Perhaps you would introduce me to the other advisors?”

“Of course.” Garland was sweating a little. How had he ever been elected Host, when he was still as clumsy in word and deed as ever? But he got through the introductions well enough, and Esmay managed to smile with the right intensity at all the right people.

The award ceremony itself felt odd, because Esmay could not feel anything at all. She was too aware of the faint murmur of the earplug, coaching her through the required lines, of the expressions on the faces around her . . . the embarrassment she’d felt when first told of the award could not penetrate the concentration needed to do it right. The Starmount itself, a disk with the blue and black enamel representing a mountain against the sky, the little diamond glittering at the peak, aroused neither pride nor guilt. She bent her head to let the Host put the wide blue—and-gray ribbon around her neck; the medal felt lighter than she’d expected.