Petris shook his head. “No. That’s right enough. But do you think these Royal-ass punks can understand it?”
“Might learn something,” Oblo said. Ronnie felt a tension between the two men, not quite conflict, and wondered what it could be.
“All right.” Petris wiped his mouth with his hand, and settled back, looking past them. “It started with the Cavinatto campaign, which is too new to have been in your studies, so don’t argue with me about it. Scuttlebutt says it was Admiral Lepescu who thought up the lousy plan; from what I know of him I wouldn’t doubt it. If our captain had followed his orders, most of us would’ve died, and it wouldn’t have accomplished a damn thing. It was a stupid plan, and a stupid order.”
“But—” George began; Petris glared him down.
“Do you want the gag again? Then be quiet. I know what you think—officers that refuse orders are traitors and should be shot—right?”
George nodded and shrugged at the same time, trying not to offend. Ronnie almost laughed aloud—but not when he saw Petris’s face.
“That’s what the rules say,” Petris went on. “No matter how stupid, how bloody, or how unnecessary, officers obey their seniors and enlisted obey officers. Mostly they do, and mostly it works, because when you’re not in combat, a stupid order won’t kill you. Usually. But then there’s combat. You expect to die someday—it’s not a safe profession, after all—” Behind Petris, the others chuckled, but he ignored them. “But what you hope for is that your death will mean something—you’ll be expended, as the saying is, in some action that accomplishes something more than just turning you into a bloody mess.” He was silent after that so long that George stirred and opened his mouth; Ronnie waved at him, hoping he would keep quiet. Finally Petris looked at both of them and started speaking again.
“It’s not that anyone doubted Serrano’s courage, you know. She’d been in action before; she had a couple of decorations you don’t get for just sitting by a console and pushing the right buttons. No—what she did, refusing a stupid order that would kill a lot of people without accomplishing any objective, that was damn brave, and we all knew it. She was risking her career, maybe her life. When it was over, and she faced the inquiry on it, she didn’t try to spread the blame—she took it just the way you’d expect—would have expected—from knowing her before. I’d been with her on three different ships; I knew—I thought I knew—what she was. She was facing a court-martial, dishonorable discharge, maybe prison time or execution, if she couldn’t prove that Admiral Lepescu’s order was not only stupid but illegal. I was scared for her; I knew she had friends in high places, but not that high, and it’s damned hard to prove an admiral is giving bad orders just because he likes to see bloodshed.”
He paused again, and drank two long swallows from his flask. “That was the Serrano I thought I knew—the woman who would risk that.” His voice slowed, pronouncing every word as if it hurt his mouth. “Not the woman who would take the chance to resign her commission before the court and lay the blame on her crew. Leave us to face court-martial, and conviction, and this—this sentence.” His wave included the place, the people, the situation. “She didn’t come to our trial; she didn’t offer any testimony, any written support, nothing. She dumped us, the very crew she’d supposedly risked her career to save. It didn’t make sense, unless her decision to avoid that engagement really was cowardice, or she saw it as a way to leave the Service. . . .”
Ronnie said nothing. He remembered his first sight of Captain Serrano, the rigidity with which she had held herself, like someone in great pain who will not admit it. He remembered the reaming out she’d given him, that time on the bridge, and what he’d heard her say to his aunt . . . scathing, both times, and he’d sworn to get his vengeance someday. She had held him captive, forced his attention, “tamed” him, as she’d put it. He had had to watch her take to riding, and hunting, as if she were born to it, while he loathed every hour on horseback; he had had to hear his aunt’s praise of her captain’s ability, and her scorn of him. That, too, he had sworn to avenge. Now was his chance, and it required nothing of him but silence.
He met George’s eyes. . . . He had told George, he remembered, what Serrano had said about her past. He had been angry, and he had eavesdropped without shame, and shared the gossip without shame. Now he felt the shame; he could feel his ears burning.
“It wasn’t that,” he heard himself saying. Petris looked at him, brows raised. “She didn’t know,” he said.
“How do you know?” asked Oblo, before Petris could.
“I—I heard her talking to my aunt,” Ronnie said. He dared not look at Raffa; she would be ashamed of him. “They told her—I suppose that admiral you mentioned—that if she stood trial, the crew would be tried with her, but if she resigned, no action would be taken against her subordinates.”
Petris snorted. “Likely! Of course she’d make up a good story for later; she wouldn’t want to admit she’d sold us—”
“I’m not sure,” Oblo said. “It could be. Think, Petris: which is more like our Serrano?”
“She’s not my Serrano!” Petris said furiously. For a moment, Ronnie thought he might attack Oblo. “Dammit, man—she could have—”
“Could have been tricked, same as us.” Oblo, Ronnie realized, had never wanted to believe Serrano guilty of treachery. He turned to Ronnie. “Of course, lad, she’s your aunt’s captain—you’d like her and defend her, I daresay. . . .”
“Like her!” That was George, unable to keep quiet any longer. “That—that puffed-up, arrogant, autocratic, bossy—! No one could like her. Do you know what she did to Ronnie? To Ronnie—on his own aunt’s ship? Slapped him in the face! Ordered him off the bridge, as if he were any stupid civilian! And me—she told me I was nothing but a popinjay, a pretty face with not the sense to find my left foot—”
“George,” said Ronnie, trying not to laugh. “George, never mind—”
“No, Ronnie.” George looked as regal as he could, which was almost funnier. “I’ve had enough of this. Captain Serrano may have been your aunt’s choice, but she was not mine. All those ridiculous emergency drills—I’ve never seen such a thing on a proper yacht. All that fussing about centers of mass, and alternative navigation computer checks, and whatnot. I’m not a bit surprised that woman got herself in trouble somewhere; she’s obsessed with rules and regulations. That sort always go bonkers sometime. She drove you—the least mischievous of our set—to eavesdrop on her conversations with your aunt—”
“Enough,” said Petris, and George stopped abruptly.
“Let’s hear, and briefly, from you, Ronnie. What precisely did you hear, and under what circumstances?”
Ronnie gathered his wits again. “Well . . . she had chewed me out, and waked us up three lateshifts running for drills. I wanted to get back at her—” Put that way, it sounded pretty childish; he realized now it had been. “So I patched into the audio in my aunt’s study.” He didn’t think he needed to tell Petris about the stink bomb, or its consequences. “She and my aunt talked a lot—mostly about books or music or art, sometimes about the ship or riding. But my aunt wanted to know about her time in the Service, why she resigned. I could tell the captain didn’t want to answer, but my aunt can be . . . persuasive. So that’s what she said, what I told you before. She was offered a chance to resign her commission rather than face a court-martial, and was promised that if she resigned no action would be taken against any of her crew. Otherwise, she was told, her crew would also be charged, and it was more than likely they’d all be condemned. She . . . cried, Petris. I don’t think she cries often.”