The Serrano Connection (58 page)

"I could get attached to the old girl," Esmay said, peering out the observation ports to the patterns of lights on T-1 and T-5. "She's an amazing ship." She and Barin had found a quiet corner of the crafts activity compartment; the climbing club was busy on the Wall, and Barin had confessed he felt no more eagerness for climbing than she did. She thought he looked a lot better; she knew she felt better . . . she had had no nightmares for the past twenty days and was beginning to hope they were gone forever.

"You're going to transfer to Maintenance Command?" Barin looked up from the model he was putting together, the skeleton of some exotic beast. She could not read his expression, but she saw tension in the muscles of his face.

"It's tempting . . . there's a lot more to learn here . . ."

"Fine for a sponge," Barin said, in a tone that suggested what he thought of sponges.

"Fretting, are we?" Esmay asked, wrinkling her nose at him. "Eager to get back to the
real
Fleet?"

He flushed, then smiled. "Therapy's going well, even the group part. It may even—in the very long run—turn out to be something worthwhile."

"Look out all admirals . . . someone's after your job?"

"Not quite. By the time I get to that age, there may be no slots for new admirals anyway. That's another reason to get back into my own track as soon as possible." He cleared his throat. "How's your stuff going?"

"Stuff? I'm not shy about it, Barin. The sessions have helped. I still wish I knew how much of the change was me, and how much was in those medications, but . . . they say it doesn't matter."

"So what are you going to do? Back into technical track, into scan?"

"I'm transferring," Esmay said. "If they approve, which I hope they will. So far they're being encouraging." She still found it hard to believe how encouraging. Gruff Pitak had practically leaped over the desk, and she had undeniably grinned.

"Transfer to
what
, you annoying woman?"

Esmay ducked her head, then faced him squarely. "Command track. I think it's time a few dirtborn outsiders held command."

"Yes!" His grin lit the compartment. "Please . . . when you get your first
legal
command . . . wangle me a place in your crew."

"Wangle?" She pretended to glare at him, but her face wouldn't stay straight. "You Serranos can wangle all you want, but Suizas expect to
earn
command." He made a face and sighed dramatically. "Gods help us all—we let the Suizas off Altiplano."

"Let?" Esmay reached out and tickled him. Startled, he dropped the model onto the desk.

"You touched me!"

"I'm an idiot," Esmay said, feeling herself blush.

"No . . . you're human. Overwhelmed by my charm."

Esmay laughed. "You wish!"

"Yes, I do," he said with a sudden change of expression. Slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek. "I do wish an alliance with this Suiza of Altiplano. Not just because Suiza has pulled Serrano out of trouble twice now, but because . . . I do like you. Admire you. And most desperately wish you'd like me enough to welcome me into your life." A pause she knew was calculated. "And into your bed."

Her pulse raced. She wasn't ready for this, she hadn't let herself think about it since Pitak's lecture during the crisis. Her body informed her that she was lying, that she had thought of very little else whenever she had the chance. "Uh . . ."

"Though not if the prospect disgusts you, of course. Only if . . . I never thought you'd touch me, aside from whacking me firmly with your elbow or knee in a wallball game." He was joking now, flushing a little himself, and Esmay felt moved to perform a rescue.

"I'm shy," she said. "Inexperienced to the point of total ignorance, barring what I saw on the farm as a girl, which I hope is a long way from anything you were thinking of, as it involved biting and kicking and hobbles."

Barin choked back a laugh. "Esmay!"

"Inexperienced, I said. Not, you will notice, unwilling."

In the long silence that followed, watching the shifting expressions play over his face, feeling the first feather-touch of his fingers on her face, on her hair, Esmay laid the last fiery ghost to rest.

Awards ceremonies all had the same structure; she wondered if all recipients felt a little silly, so far removed from the mood in which they'd done whatever it was that got them honored. Why the discrepancy? Why had the Starmount stricken her to silent awe when she saw it on someone else's uniform, while she had felt first nothing much, and then a sort of shamed confusion, when she wore it herself? As Admiral Foxworth spoke briefly to each recipient, she found she could believe that the others deserved their medals—that those awards were real. It was hers that felt . . . wrong.

The sessions of therapy rose up like a mirror in her mind. From a vague shape against darkness her own face came clear, as real as any other. She was real . . . she had done what she had done, and its worth lay not in anything
they
said about it. What bothered her . . . she struggled with it, fought to bring it out where she could see. Why was it right for others, but wrong for her?
You don't deserve it
, said part of her mind. She knew the answer to that now, knew the roots of that belief and could pull up those roots no matter how often the wrinkled seed sprouted. But what else? If . . . if she became that person who could be honored, who could be recognized in public as honorable, then . . . then what? Then someone might . . . look up to her as she had looked up to that young man. Might expect her to be what the award made her seem, what they judged she was ready for.

She almost grinned, making that connection.

She could remember, down the years, from before the trouble, an instructor telling some hapless student: "Don't tell me I overmounted you: shut up and
ride
." And then he'd looked at her, the little Esmay knee-high to the tall horses, watching from the ringside, and said, "This one'll show you." He had tossed her up to another horse—the first time she'd been on a horse and not a pony. She'd been more excited than scared, too young to know she couldn't do what she was told to do—and not knowing, she'd stayed aboard. It had felt like flying, so high above the ground, so fast. She could almost feel that grin stretching her face. "Like that," the instructor had said, lifting her down. And then he'd leaned close to her. "Keep that up, little one."

She wasn't riding ponies any more. She was out in the world, on the big horses, taking the big fences—and she would just have to live up to her reputation as the horses and fences grew bigger. . . .

"Lieutenant Esmay Suiza." She stood, came forward as directed, and listened as Admiral Foxworth read the citation. She waited for him to pick up the ribbon his aide held on a tray, but instead he raised one bushy gray eyebrow. "You know, Lieutenant, I've seen the summary of the Board of Inquiry." Esmay waited, and when the silence lengthened wondered if she was supposed to answer that. Finally he went on. "The final paragraph specifically notes that you are not to be in command of any combat vessel until such time as you have demonstrated competence in relevant training exercises. Yet I find that your citation says you took command of the vessel
Antberd's Axe
which subsequently engaged enemy vessels in a hostile encounter. Your commander praises your initiative, when I would think he should condemn your blatant disregard of the findings of that Board of Inquiry." He looked at her, his face now blank of all expression. "Do you have anything to say, Lieutenant?"

All the things she wanted to say, and must not, tangled in her mouth. What was right? What was safe? What was . . . true? Finally she said, "Well, sir, my recollection is that the Board said I should not command any
R.S.S.
combat vessels until further training . . . it didn't say anything about Bloodhorde ships."

A long moment of utter silence, during which Esmay had ample time to regret her boldness and consider the power of angry admirals. Maybe she had overmounted herself, maybe the fence was too high. Then a slow grin creased his face and he looked past her to the rest of the assembly. "
And
she can think on her feet," he said. The crowd roared; Esmay felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. The admiral picked up the decoration and pinned it on. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Suiza."

On the far side of the fence, the ground was still there; she would survive this time, and she would keep riding forward. Coming back to her seat, she caught Barin's eye; he was sparkling all over with delight in her, and she indulged herself with a moment's fantasy . . . Suiza and Serrano. Yes. Oh, my,
yes
.

The usual suspects (you know who you are . . . ), with special thanks to Ellen McLean and Mary Morell for helping with the psychology behind the pathology. Mary managed to read the first draft and make intelligent comments even as the rain poured down, the roof leaked, and a dead mouse turned up in the guest room. This is heroic manuscript help. Diann Thornley let me pick her brain about what kinds of things are taught in junior officers' leadership courses. Ruta Duhon helped me think through one of the final bits of excitement over lunch one day, probably because she was tired of hearing me complain that I was stuck. Anna Larsen and Toni Weisskopf each contributed a specific nudge to the emotional side of the plot. Kathleen Jones and David Watson took on the task of "cold reading" the final draft aloud, and did it in just a few days. Their comments markedly improved the
new
final draft. Debbie Kirk, as always, found more typos than anyone else and gently nudged my erratic spelling back toward consistency. Certain anecdotes contributed by persons who asked not to be named added grit to the fictional reality.

Special mention must be made of the bits of Texana which decorate this story. Some are real (other Texans know which), some are fictional, some are Texas mythology of the future. The misappropriation and distortion of Texas history and traditions by characters in the book does not in any way represent my attitude towards that history or those traditions. Readers with a knowledge of history and a sense of irony may be amused by the juxtaposition of certain characters' surnames; the intended references all predate the 20th century. (It was tempting, but not
that
tempting, to play in contemporary Texas politics.) Any coincidence of name is purely accidental. The movements mentioned as ancient history in the text are, however unfortunately, alive and sick in the 20th century; it would be not only useless but dishonest to pretend that the New Texas Godfearing Militia did not derive its nature from elements all too close to home, in Waco, Fort Davis, and even Oklahoma City.

Regular Space Service Training Command,
Copper Mountain Base

Halfway up the cliff, Brun realized that someone was trying  to kill her. She had already shifted weight from her left foot to her right foot when the thought penetrated, and she completed the movement, ending with her left foot on the tiny ledge almost at her crotch, before she gave her brain a "message received" signal.

Instantly, her hands slicked with sweat, and she lost the grip of her weaker left hand on the little knob. She dipped it into her chalk, and reached for the knob again, then chalked her right hand and refound that hold. That much was mechanical, after these days in training . . . so someone was trying to kill you, you didn't have to help them by doing something stupid.

She argued with herself, while pushing up, releasing her right leg for the next move. Of course, in a general way, someone was trying to kill her, or any other trainee. She had known that coming in. Better to lose trainees here than half-trained personnel in the field, where their failure would endanger others. Her breath eased, as she talked herself into a sensible frame of mind. Right foot
there
, and then the arms moving, finding the next holds, and then the left leg . . . she had enjoyed climbing almost from the first day of training.

A roar in her ears and the sudden sting on her hand: she was falling before she had time to recognize the noise and the pain. A shot. Someone had shot at her . . . hit her? Not enough pain—must've been rock splinters—then she hit the end of her rope, and swung into the cliff face with a force that knocked the breath out of her. Reflexively, her hands and feet caught at the rock, sought grips, found them, took her weight off the climbing harness. Her head rang, still; she shook it and the halves of her climbing helmet slid down to hang from the straps like the wing cases of a crushed beetle.

Damn
 . . . she thought. Reason be damned, someone was trying to kill her—her in particular—and plastered to a cliff in plain sight was not her idea of a good place to be when someone was shooting at her. She glanced around quickly. Up—too far, too slow, too exposed. Down—150 feet of falling in a predictable vertical line, whether free or on the rope. To the right, nothing but open rock. To the left, a narrow vertical crack. They had been told not to use it this time, but she'd climbed in it before, learning about cracks and chimneys. If she could get there . . .