“Well, young man, if you ask Commander Serrano, she will explain that I’m a very old lady who has been rejuvenated, and I’ve been face-to-face with more firearms than you might think. You can kill me, but you are unlikely to scare me.”
“Oh . . . are you . . . are you an undercover, too? Like Commander Serrano was?”
What was this? Undercover? Heris? A luxuriant vine of suspicion began unfurling in her mind, extending tendrils in all directions . . . Bunny . . . that vicious weasel Lepescu . . . the coincidences . . . and hadn’t Heris mentioned some relatives who were admirals? Could Heris possibly have been fooling her all along? While that ran through her mind, she simply stared at the young soldier, until he looked away. “If I were undercover, would I tell you?” she asked finally. “I don’t know what your security clearance is.”
“Uh . . . no, ma’am. I mean, you don’t . . . you wouldn’t . . . but I still have to tell them you’re here.”
“Of course you do,” she said reasonably. “Tell Commander Serrano I’d like to speak with her at her earliest convenience. When I’m dressed.” She headed for her bedroom, and the muzzle of his weapon wavered, then fell away. Idiot, she thought to herself. Suppose I were a spy or whatever he suspected. I could have an arsenal under my pillows.
She pulled open drawers, rummaging through the clothes she’d left in the ship when she went down. She felt something practical was called for, rather than grand-ladyish. The cream silk pullover, the brown twill slacks, the low boots with padded ankles. When she glanced in the mirror, the soldier had disappeared, no doubt to report her existence. Idiot, she thought again. Heris would have something to say to him about that.
Her desk chimed from the outer room, and she strode out to answer it. There was the young man, looking embarrassed, by the door to the corridor. Another stood with him. Cecelia gave them a distracted smile and touched her control panel.
“Cecelia, what are you doing on that yacht?” Heris, sounding impatient. Cecelia queried for video, but found that the signal carried no video.
“I got fed up with Marcia and Poots, and came back; I was going to ask you to take me to Rotterdam.”
“And no one told you about the emergency?”
She didn’t feel like explaining why she hadn’t heard what she’d been told, not on an all-audio link. “I didn’t know, until I arrived at the station, on the last up-shuttle, which was going to be overfull going down.” A pause. Heris said nothing. “I found Brun and Sirkin,” Cecelia added. “We’re all safe.” The next pause was eloquent; Cecelia could easily imagine Heris searching for a telling phrase.
“You’re not safe,” Heris said finally. “You’re square in the midst of a military action. This system is under attack by the Benignity; their ships are in the outer system now, and I need that yacht and its weapons . . . not three useless civilians who were supposed to be down on the surface digging in.”
Anger flared. “Civilians aren’t always useless. If you can remember that far back, one of them saved your life on Sirialis.”
“True. I’m sorry. It just . . . the question is, what now? I can’t get you to safety onplanet . . . if that’s safe.”
“So quit worrying about it. Do you think I’m worried about dying?”
“I . . . you just got rejuved.”
“So I did. It didn’t eliminate my eighty-odd years of experience, or make me timid. If I die, I die . . . but in the meantime, why not let me help?”
A chuckle. She could imagine Heris’s face. “Lady Cecelia, you are inimitable. Get yourself up to the bridge; someone will find you a place. Jig Faroe’s in command. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
“Good hunting, Heris,” Cecelia said. She felt a pleasant tingle of anticipation.
Even in more normal conditions of war, when Heris had had time to make plans and go over them with her crew, the last hours before combat always seemed to telescope, accelerating toward them in a way that the physicists said didn’t make sense. This was far worse. A change of command so close to battle was tricky at best, when it resulted from a captain’s sudden illness or other emergency. She had not had time to gain the crew’s confidence; she had not had time to assess their competence, their readiness for combat.
The normal thing to do—the textbook thing to do—was get out fast and get help. She had no orders to defend Xavier. She was clearly outnumbered; the loyalty of her crews was questionable. Or, if she chose to stay, it would be prudent to send the yacht, with its civilians . . . it could reach a safe jump radius in time to get away, long before an attack could reach it, and go back to a Fleet sector headquarters and report.
If the Benignity invaders hadn’t mined the nearest jump point insertions. They could have, and that could be the reason for the gap in the financial ansible’s transmissions. Many communications nodes for ansible transmission were located near jump points, for ease of maintenance and repair. She had an uneasy feeling about the jump points.
I have complete confidence in your judgment. Her aunt admiral had said that, her aunt who had not commented on her performance since the Academy. What did “complete confidence” mean in a situation like this? Would her aunt back whatever decision she made, or did her aunt really think she had some special ability to choose the best course of action?
She could not let any of these thoughts interfere with her concentration. The only plans she had were hasty improvisations: very well, that beat no plans at all. As far as her officers could tell, her plans came down from the admiralty. That the plans were in direct defiance of common sense wouldn’t bother them overmuch—it wasn’t their judgment on the line. If the message capsule she’d sent reached the Fleet relay ansible—if no one was suppressing such messages—someone would, eventually, consider her judgment, her decision to stay, her choice of tactics. With luck they might even get help before the Benignity blew them away.
“What we’ve got,” she told her more senior officers, “is a very unorthodox force for defending an inhabited planet.” They knew that, but they needed to hear the obvious from her, at least at the beginning. “One cruiser, one patrol craft, one armed yacht, one very ancient Desmoiselle-class escort, three atmospheric shuttles, one of them armed with phase cannon—inadequately mounted, but perhaps good for a single round, assuming a suicidal crew.”
“Phase cannon in a shuttle?” Major Svatek looked as shocked as Heris had felt when she first heard.
“It’s what they had,” she said. “It’s never been fired—of course. We’ve warned them. It would take weeks of refitting to strengthen the mounts, and we don’t have that time. Grogon is supposedly hyper-capable, but I don’t trust its FTL generator, and neither did my engineers when they inspected it. The yacht is, of course, and it’s carrying substantial weaponry for its hull—” She pulled up the display and pointed it out. “But the tradeoff there was on shields—she has only her light-duty civilian screen shields. Nothing else in the system is hyper-capable; the mining colonies have little shuttles and one ore-carrier. It’s a big hull, but it’s underpowered. And no weapons.”
“So—what’s our plan?” That was Major Tinsi, on the tightbeam from Paradox.
“Harassment with deception,” Heris said. “We won’t have real surprise, because of Hearne on Despite, but she didn’t know about everything. Unless we’re extremely lucky, we won’t destroy the incoming ships—or even deflect them permanently—but we probably can delay their attack on the planet itself, by making them unsure how many of us there are. Even if they never use the phase cannon, for instance, they’ll light up someone’s weapons scans. So will old Grogon.” Something else nagged at her memory, and finally broke through. She called Koutsoudas into the conference line.