“Wait till you hear,” George said. “Ronnie and Raffa are going to elope.”
“Not exactly elope,” Raffa said. “But we are going to marry.” Ronnie swallowed an entire muffin in one mouthful, and grinned at Heris.
“Aunt Cecelia has decided to drop her suit against my parents.” He reached for another muffin. “She says if you are going back in Fleet, and can put up with your aunt the admiral, she can put up with Mother.”
“And we’re leaving this godforsaken hole,” George said. He alone looked gloomy. “I suppose I have to go home—”
Cecelia chose that moment to arrive at the table. “We’re all going home,” she said. “Heris, we have to straighten out the yacht’s title—”
“It’s yours,” Heris said. “It always was, and it still is—”
“Because I’m thinking of selling it.” That stopped conversation for a moment as everyone stared at her.
Heris finally said, “Sell it? Why?”
“Because I don’t really like living on it. Yes, it’s nice to be able to travel when and where I want, but most of the time I want to be on a planet. With horses.” She stared at the wall a moment, and turned to Heris. “And to tell you the truth, Heris Serrano, I don’t want to travel on that yacht with any other captain but you—and I don’t want you anyplace but where you belong. In Fleet.” Heris could think of nothing to say. The moment lengthened uncomfortably, until George knocked over the sugar.
They were days from Patchcock, well on their way to Rockhouse Major, when Heris thought of an adequate answer. She looked across Cecelia’s study and saw her employer frowning over a hardcopy of equine genetics studies.
“There’s another way to travel freely, you know,” she said.
“Hmm? Oh—don’t worry about it.”
“Seriously. You could use a smaller, faster hull than this. It wouldn’t be as luxurious, but it would be too small to allow for many—even any—guests.”
“I couldn’t get stuck with Ronnie,” Cecelia said, the beginnings of a grin quirking her mouth. “Although I have to admit that had good consequences as well as bad . . . and I realize I made some of Venezia’s mistakes, letting myself be alienated from my family.” So it was more than dropping the lawsuit. Cecelia was going home with more than her body healed, this time.
“Yes, but rescuing one nephew is enough,” Heris said. She ticked off the other advantages on her fingers. “Faster—less time in transit—so you wouldn’t miss the amenities. If you learned to pilot it yourself—”
“What!” Shock in the tone, but Cecelia’s eyes sparkled.
“Would you rather ride or be driven?” Heris asked. “You’re more than bright; you’ve gained enough time in your rejuvenation—as we now understand it—that the time taken to qualify for a civilian license would hardly dent what’s left. I think you’d enjoy it; your psychological profile certainly fits.” She watched as Cecelia’s face ran its gamut from surprise to anticipation. “Your own ship under your own control—of course you’d need crew, a few, because it’s not safe to solo at the distances you travel. But a small crew, and you yourself in charge—” That would be the real lure; Cecelia’s lack of political ambition sprang from no contempt for power itself.
“How long would it take?” Cecelia asked. Ah. She would talk herself into it. Heris relaxed.
“Depends if you go full-time or part,” Heris said. “Brun has all the current standards—she’s planning to qualify too. As you Rejuvenants are discovering, there are no limits to learning new skills.”
Cecelia had a faint flush on her cheeks, more excitement than anything else, Heris thought.
“I can’t seem to get used to it—the idea that we could keep living for centuries . . . forever—”
“Maybe you can’t. Maybe there are limits. But you will certainly have time to learn to pilot your own craft, if you want.”
“I’d like that,” Cecelia said. “I really would. And you?”
“Me? I go back in Fleet, of course—and, while you’ve been very courteous in not asking, that includes my former crew. Petris as well. We have . . . an understanding.”
“Good,” Cecelia said. “I’d hate to have you lose what you gained, there. And your family?”
That brought a knot to her stomach. “My family . . . well. My aunt the admiral said we’d talk. I’ll do what I have to.”
“It will be better than that,” Cecelia said. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but Heris was in no mood to listen to auntly platitudes from someone who had taken her own family to court. Perhaps Cecelia recognized that; instead of going on, she asked about Sirkin’s plans.
“There’s someone you should talk to,” Lord Thornbuckle said. He opened the door, and Heris managed by the slightest margin to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. She had not expected to meet her aunt here. Lord Thornbuckle nodded at Admiral Serrano, and went out, closing the door behind him.
“Good to see you again, Heris.”
“Sir.” Formality always worked; Heris fled into it as into a thicket.
“We’re off duty, both of us. You can call me Aunt Vida, or Aunt Admiral . . . but not sir.”
“Yes, sir—Aunt. Vida.”
“Better.” Vida took one of the big leather chairs and leaned back comfortably. “You did a remarkable job in Xavier, as you well know.”
“Thank you.” Heris eyed her aunt, wondering what was coming.
“And on Patchcock.”
“That wasn’t really my doing, sir—Aunt. Lady Cecelia and the others—”
“Nonetheless. I’m very pleased with your performance. You have more than justified my confidence.”
“Thank you.” Heris decided there was no use not asking the question that had burned in her mind for all the time since Xavier. “You did put that keyhole into the database—”
“Of course.” Vida grinned. “If you were smart enough to figure it out, you were smart enough to need it.”
That didn’t compute, in Heris’s mind, but she had no time to think it over.
“I want to talk to you about the family.” Vida wasn’t smiling now. Heris shifted uneasily in her chair. The old anger and confusion rose like a foul tide.
“I don’t,” she said shortly. “If they wanted to contact me, they could have easily enough. They haven’t.”
Vida shook her head. “Heris, your parents made a mistake. They didn’t come to your assistance instantly. I do not know their reasons; I have not asked. The only person who really needs to know is you.”
“I don’t—”
“Perhaps not. If you can accept that they made the wrong decision, without rancor, then you don’t need to know. But if not you, then no one. You are still angry; you are still hurt. You should ask them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Heris said. She had no intention of asking them. She didn’t care what their reasons had been. The lump in her throat grew to choking size. She tried not to look at Vida’s face, or anything else.
Her aunt sighed. “If you’re going to be terminally angry with anyone, be angry with me.”
“Why? You’re the only one who ever contacted me, who ever bothered—”
“On my orders.” A flat statement, no possibility of error. Heris stared at her, seeing nothing in that face she could understand.
“What?”
“On my orders, once you had resigned.” Vida paused, and gave Heris another long stare from those remarkable eyes. “You know, that surprised us all. Your resignation, coming so fast.”
“Surely Admiral Sorkangh told you—”
“Afterwards, yes. Not at the time of the Board. I would not have expected that—I would have expected you to fight back—”
Rage exploded in her head like ships in combat, vast flowering shapes of colored light. “By myself? With no one from the family coming to my aid? With Sorkangh against me? You weren’t there—no one was there for me—” The fury came out of her mouth, the debris of her hopes, her career. When she ran down, shaking with rage and sorrow, her aunt sat as quietly as before.