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.
“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 . . .”