"My God," the man in the yellow jacket said, loud enough for her to hear. "That's ancient music. Parry's setting of Blake's lyrics. 'Jerusalem'—the battle hymn of the Anglican Masses two centuries or more before humans left Old Earth. But the words . . ." His voice choked, and he shook his head. Cecelia had no idea what he was talking about, and decided he hadn't taken any antox.
After a pause, some of the voices were singing again.
Bring me my bow of burning gold
"That's right," the man said in an undertone.
Bring me my arrows of desire
"That too."
Bring me my ship—O clouds unfold
"It's not a ship, it's a spear . . ."
"Shut
up
, stupid," Cecelia hissed at him. He gave her a startled look over his shoulder, opened his mouth, glanced at Oblo, and turned back to his drink, mercifully silent.
Bring me my chariot of fire.
We shall not cease our faithful watch
Nor shall the sword sleep in our hand
Till we have gone beyond the stars
To join that fair immortal band.
The last voices died away. The man in the yellow jacket turned to her; she saw tears on his face, and felt them on her own.
"Sorry," he said. "It was just—I'd only heard that on recordings. That music was powerful enough there . . . in real life . . . it's overwhelming."
"It doesn't matter," Cecelia said.
"Civilians mostly don't hear it," Oblo said.
Meharry edged up to the man in the yellow jacket and tapped his arm. "My brother, now, he says you're a professor and saved his life."
"Meharry—that young man we pulled out of the raft? I don't think I saved his life—"
"You did put that nasty major to sleep," the young woman said. She grinned at Meharry and Oblo. "I'm Ensign Pardalt; I was there too. I think the professor saved him a lot of trouble, if not his life."
"You're from Xavier, right?" Oblo asked.
"Yes—is that Commander Serrano over there?"
"Admiral Serrano, now. But yes, if you mean the Serrano who fought at Xavier. Lieutenant Suiza's there too."
The younger woman's eyes widened. "Both of them here together? I should—I should go thank them—"
"Come along, then," Meharry said. "I'll take you over there." The professor sighed, then smiled ruefully when Cecelia looked at him.
"It's not even the young and handsome who can compete with me. Alas, I am a useless old windbag—" He sighed again and grinned. "But you, another beauteous redhead—"
"No one says beauteous anymore," Cecelia said. "And I'm not—I'm older than you are."
"Are you sure? I'm over fifty . . ."
"My looks are deceiving," Cecelia said. She couldn't help it; talking to him seemed to make bad dialogue pop out of her mouth.
"Oh, well, then. Since you have stars on your shoulder, I presume you're an admiral, and maybe you can tell me when I can get home to my wife."
"Sorry," Cecelia said. "I'm not in that department. It should be soon, though. I'll be glad to get home, too."
"She's a very bright girl, that Margiu Pardalt," the professor said, gazing after her, "but she's no substitute for a wife. My wife, at least."
A gust of icy wet wind blew in as a group in uniform threw open the doors. Cecelia squinted past the lights; she didn't recognize any of them. But from the sudden tense hush, she knew someone did.
"Who's that?" she asked Oblo.
"Livadhis," Oblo said. "Lots and lots of Livadhis . . ."
"Livadhi—but wasn't that the one who—?"
"Yes." Cecelia could feel Oblo's tension, and she glanced at the tableful of Serrano officers. They, too, had seen the Livadhis. "And what they're doing here—"
"Admiral Serrano," the man in front of the group said. He had, Cecelia noticed, stars on his shoulders. More than any of the others.
"
Which
Admiral Serrano," muttered Oblo, along with something Cecelia refused to admit she'd heard.
All the admirals Serrano stood up, and Cecelia was suddenly reminded of the confrontation scene in a bad historical drama, two rival gangs facing each other down. Sabado Serrano moved, as if to speak, but Heris put out her hand.
"We are sorry for your loss," she said, into the silence.
"You—" that was the senior Livadhi, but his voice choked. He shook his head, then went on. "We came to apologize to you. For what he did."
"I named him," Heris said. "As an absent friend."
Cecelia felt an ache in her chest; it had never occurred to
her
to name a traitor as an absent friend, to grieve for an enemy.
"Is it too late to sing him home?" asked the senior Livadhi.
"It is never too late," Heris said, "to honor the good in a man's life, or grieve his loss." She nodded to the other Serranos and began the song; other voices joined in.
This for the friends we had of old . . .
CHANGE OF COMMANDChapter OneAGAINST THE ODDS
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-TwoChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven