Serrano. He blinked, and his vision cleared. He was a Serrano, though he wasn't sure which one. Serrano meant duty, meant expectations, meant . . . someone had died, and it was his fault.
"How many?" he said, around a tongue that felt like a dirty sock.
"Do you know your name?" the person said.
"Serrano," he said, repeating what he'd heard.
"Full name?"
He blinked again. He was fairly sure he wasn't one of the female Serranos, but which one of the men . . . ? "Sabado," he said.
"Still confused," the voice said. "Back to sleep, son."
Son? Was that his father? He was fairly sure it wasn't his father. Darkness closed over him while he was still puzzling about it.
The next time he woke with brutal clarity, perfectly aware of who he was—Lieutenant junior grade Barin Serrano—and what had happened: because he had screwed up, men were dead. He was no more use than he had been on
Koskiusko
, when he'd been a captive. His head felt as if someone were hitting it with a hammer, and he knew that was right and just.
"Do you know your name?" someone asked. He glanced over at the person in the green scrubs, recognized him as belonging in sickbay.
"Yes. Barin Serrano, Lieutenant junior grade . . ."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Sickbay," Barin said. "
Rosa Maior
."
"Right. Do you know what day it is?"
"No . . . was I knocked out?"
"You could put it like that. You could also say you were damn near killed—do you remember any of it?"
"No," Barin said. He didn't, really, though he had a few burning images: a dark shape flying through flame, a great black gap with stars beyond . . ." Somebody died," he said.
"Yeah, but a damn sight fewer than there'd have been without you."
"How many?"
"Two. The idiot who panicked, and somebody blown out the hole in the bulkhead, only he hit the edge. Three of you with injuries: burns, broken bones. You're the worst—you were right in the middle of it, from what I gather. But you're alive. Now answer me some more questions, son, so I can get on with my work."
"Sure," Barin said.
"Who's Chair of the Grand Council?"
"Uh . . . Hobart Conselline."
"Grand Admiral?"
"Savanche."
"Who's captain of this ship?"
"I . . . can't remember."
"That's all right. What's two plus two?"
"Four," Barin said, mildly annoyed.
"Good. Now, what hurts?"
"My head," Barin said. He tried to ask himself if anything else hurt, but his head dominated.
"Well, we can't put you in a regen tank until the concussion resolves. The pressure's down . . . we've done some surgical fixation—that's why you're mostly immobilized."
He hadn't noticed, but now he realized he wasn't able to move.
The next day his seniors descended on him in a group. He braced himself for condemnation, but instead they told him he was a credit to the service.
He couldn't understand it. Why were they praising him, when it was his fault to start with? If he'd paid more attention during his ensign rotation in Environmental, he'd have known they used a specialized chemscan. He wouldn't have ignored Wahn's complaint that his unit didn't have all those fancy names. If he'd paid more attention in chemistry, he'd have known that methane had a molecular weight of sixteen. He'd have known that even at low pressure and low temperature, oxygen and methane formed an explosive mix across a wide range of concentrations. If he'd known Ghormley better, if he'd had more persuasive ability, more command presence, the kid wouldn't have panicked and bolted like that. If he'd known what he should have known, if he'd made sure they had the right equipment, the explosion would never have happened.
Ghormley would still be alive. Betenkin would still be alive. O'Neil and Averre and Telleen wouldn't have been hurt. There wouldn't be a hole in that bulkhead, and the ship wouldn't be missing almost half its life support.
The headache subsided, but the ache in his heart did not. When O'Neil came and thanked him a few days later, that made it worse.
"I'm sorry," Barin said. "I should have—"
O'Neil shook his head. "You did the best you could, sir. Tell you the truth, when you said 'methane,' I sorta froze. Couldn't think, just wanted to run like Ghormley did. But you had a plan—"
"Not much of one," Barin said.
"That's not what the Environmental Officer said. He said it was a goddam miracle anyone got out alive, and the ship didn't blow, and he wouldn't have liked to stand there the way you did."
If he argued, they'd think he was fishing for more compliments. "I can't remember much of it, that's the truth," he said.
"Just as well, probably," O'Neil said. "Averre and Telleen were in the lock; Betenkin and I were next, and Betenkin had unclipped to go through when the flash came. The overpressure slammed the lock back through into the corridor—that's how Averre and Telleen got hurt, smacked against the bulkhead there—then it sucked back out, Betenkin with it. If I hadn't been holding onto the safety bar, I'd have gone too. I didn't see what happened to you, exactly, but they found you kind of caught in some of the piping; your leg had jammed, and they think that's what kept you from being swept out with the blast. Ghormley was dead, and you were alive, just barely."
"I couldn't stop him," Barin said, blinking back tears he hoped O'Neil didn't see. "I was too far—"
"Now, sir, you know if you'd moved it'd have done the same thing. You gave us all the best chance you could, just standing there. Nobody's blaming you."
They should, but he couldn't say that either.
"How's the ship?" he asked instead.
"Limpin' along. I doubt they'll be able to do much but scrap her. Lost a third of the FTL nodes; they're sending a DSR here to see if they can do anything."
Sending a DSR? They wouldn't send a deep-space repair ship unless
Rosa Major
couldn't make it back on her own. Barin pushed away the memory of the
Koskinska
going to the rescue, of himself as captive, that earlier humiliation.
"Got two of the mutineer ships, but three made it out of the system. The good news: Fleet's got the Copper Mountain system back. Scuttlebutt is they're sending wounded there for advanced care."
Copper Mountain . . . his last memory of Copper Mountain was that ridiculous quarrel with Esmay. Suddenly he wanted Esmay, wanted her fiercely. But what would she say? Esmay, twice and three times a hero, who always did the right thing in a crisis . . . what would she think of him? Would she be ashamed? And she wasn't even in Fleet anymore. Would he ever see her again?
Pounce II
Cecelia de Marktos, en route to the Guerni Republic with Miranda Meager-Thornbuckle, ignored the warnings about the mutiny with her usual blithe assumption that no one would interfere with
her
. She registered her flight plan with the nearest Fleet headquarters, so as not to be mistaken for a pirate or foreign spy, but refused their advice to take passage on a commercial liner.
"The mutineers aren't going to bother with two old women on a tiny little ship like
Pounce
," she told the earnest young man with the furrowed brow.
"But they might—and you're helpless if they do—"
"I think the risk of traveling on a large commercial liner with hundreds of other potential hostages is much greater," Cecelia said. She had not told them her passenger's identity; Miranda would make a fine hostage, but she didn't intend to become one.
"I can't stop you," the young man said, for the third or fourth time. "I can only advise you very strongly—"
"Not to do it. Yes, I understand. Still, it's my old bones, and I never expected to live this long anyway."
Miranda waited until they'd undocked and were well on the outbound leg before she commented. Then it was only, "And you think Brun got her reckless attitude from me?"
"She's not my daughter," Cecelia said. She had all the automatic devices available for such ships, but jump insertion was still tricky. Her course would, she hoped, take her safely past all the probable trouble zones in a series of linked jumps, popping them back into realspace on the Guernesi border.
"People tried to warn Brun, and she ended up a prisoner—"
"That was different," Cecelia said. She had the uneasy feeling that it wasn't that different, but she also knew there would be no way to conceal Miranda's identity if they took a commercial ship. Especially in the current political crisis, such ships demanded positive identification, and someone would be sure to tip off the newsvids. As far as anyone outside the immediate family knew, Miranda was still on Sirialis.
Cecelia had been regretting her bright idea for some days now—Miranda, though perfectly sane in her behavior, was not the travel companion she would have chosen for such tight quarters. Miranda belonged in a suite, with room for a maid, not in
Pounce
's narrow passage and meagre compartments. They couldn't pass each other without bumping hips. Worse, she could not forget the sight of Miranda's lunge at Pedar, that instant's motion she'd seen before the man collapsed . . .
It had taken an act of will not to remove every sharp object from the little ship's tiny galley, but no act of will could keep her from having nightmares. She had willingly locked herself up alone with a murderer. How could she be so stupid? But Miranda wouldn't kill her . . . she had done nothing to Miranda or her children . . . of course she was the only person to whom Miranda had confessed . . .
"I don't suppose you'll ever tell me where Brun's children are," Miranda said.
"I thought you didn't want to know," Cecelia said, startled by the abrupt change of topic.
"I'd like to know if you're sure they're safe."
"Yes. Absolutely certain. They're with families who love them; they have family names to grow into. The last time I saw them, they were healthy and happy."
"That's good. I thought, after you'd gone, that perhaps we should have asked around Brun's friends . . . someone like Raffa, for instance, might have been able to place them."
Cecelia clamped her teeth together and hoped her face had betrayed nothing. "Raffa has her own life now," she said. "I very much doubt—"
"You're right," Miranda said. "I was forgetting—I'm so used to having her around to help Brun, but she's married Ronnie and they're off pioneering someplace, aren't they?"
"Berenice is still quite annoyed with Ronnie about that," Cecelia said. "She didn't mind his marrying Raffaele, but she did not approve of their decision to emigrate." If she could keep the conversation on Ronnie's mother's feelings, that might be safe ground.
"I know he's your nephew, Cecelia, but he did always seem a bit more flighty than our boys."
"According to his mother, he's not flighty now." She managed to chuckle at the memory. "The last word she had was a message cube with video of him and Raffaele, both of them sunburnt and dirty, grinning like idiots, is how she put it."
"Any grandchildren yet?"
Cecelia chose to interpret that the way her sister would have. "No . . . and she's not pleased about that, either. Apparently she and Raffaele's mother have had a set-to about it, because Raffaele's brother and Penelope Price-Lynhurst just had a baby. Berenice is claiming it's not fair. Luckily I wasn't there, but apparently it rattled the teacups."
Miranda laughed. "Berenice is so unlike you . . ."
"So I've heard all my life. I keep trying, but we are never going to get along." Cecelia leaned back in her seat. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad. If they could talk about other peoples' children the whole trip, it would be boring, but safe. She hoped Miranda would have the sense to keep off politics.
Day by day, through the sequence of jump points, they worked their way across Familias Space. Miranda proved capable of producing edible meals from the small galley and spent quite a bit of time in her compartment. Cecelia's nightmares ceased; she no longer tensed up when Miranda came up behind her when she was in the pilot's seat. She did occasionally wonder what was going on in the world outside—how far the mutiny had progressed, where Heris Serrano was—but that was someone else's problem. She had enough to do, she told herself, keeping
Pounce
on course.
The downjump transition occurred six hours ahead of schedule, when Cecelia and Miranda were sitting down to mugs of soup. As the alarm squawked, the ship quivered like a horse shaking off flies and then lurched abruptly. Hot soup landed in Cecelia's lap; she jumped up and staggered into the cabinet as the ship lurched again. The automatic voice warning came on as Cecelia groped for an ice pack for her scalded leg. "Malfunction . . . malfunction . . . malfunction . . . proximity alarm, excessive flux . . . pilot override . . . pilot override . . ."