Once a Hero

by Elizabeth Moon

Chapter Two

Harborview Industrial Park, Castle Rock

        The conference room had been swept and garnished, ensuring that it was empty of the security demons whose probing eyes and ears, and busy tongues, would have had a field day. Outside, two offices away, an efficient receptionist would deal with any calls; the rest of the staff were busy on assigned projects. The three partners who had formed Special Materials Analysis Consulting looked at the moment more like business rivals than old friends. Arhos Asperson, short, compact, dark-haired, leaned forward, elbows on the polished table, as Gori Lansamir reported on the results of clandestine research. Across from him, Losa Aguilar lay back in her chair, consciously opposing him in gesture as in attitudes. The lounging posture did not suit her; with her lean body went an energy usually expressed in action.
        "You were right, Arhos. In-house projections at Calmorrie are that demand will rise steeply, especially for repeat procedures where the last procedure used drugs from a questionable source." Gori scowled, an unusual expression on his normally amiable face. Arhos nodded.
        "In other words, last week's blip in the price of a first-time rejuvenation wasn't a blip at all."
        "No." Gori pointed to details in the chart he'd displayed. "Ever since the king resigned, there's been talk about adulteration of the components. The shakeup in the Morreline family holdings suggests to me it may be even bigger than what's alleged in the suits already filed."
        "I suppose we should be glad we didn't get ours done last year," Losa said. Arhos looked at her; had there been a hint of smugness in her tone? Probably. Losa enjoyed rightness as a personal fiefdom. Usually he didn't mind, but when she disagreed with him, that buzzsaw certainty hurt.
        "Not to our credit, since we couldn't afford them last year--or this, with the price increase. I suppose we could get one of us done--" Arhos glanced at his partners. Gori might go along with that, but Losa never would. Nor would he himself, unless he was the one to get rejuv.
        "No," Losa said quickly, before Gori could say anything. "For the same reasons we didn't pool funds to do one of us last year."
        "You don't have to make your distrust quite so obvious," Arhos murmured. "I wasn't suggesting it--only pointing out that we could afford only one this year, too. It's taken us five years to save up that much--and with the price expected to rise steeply--"
        "We need more contracts," Gori said. "Surely with all that's happening in the Fleet right now, we can find a niche?"
        "We should have an advantage," Losa said. "We shouldn't be under any suspicion, like the major suppliers and consulting firms."
        "That might help." Arhos had his doubts. Somehow even when the witch-hunters were out, the good old firms seemed to find a safe hideout. "We do good work; we've had Fleet contracts through Misiani . . . if anyone notices the sub-sub contractors at a time like this."
        "That's what you're worried about? That we're not noticeable enough?"
        "In a way. The thing is, they have no way of knowing whether we subs perform well because we're good, or because we're under the thumb of the main contractor. Thus no reason to trust us on our own."
        "We've had a few . . ." Losa began. Then she shrugged, before Arhos could say it. "But not enough of the juicy ones. Our profit margin's too low."
        "No, and the real problem, I'm convinced, is that we aren't rejuved yet. The big firms all have rejuved executives now."
        "We're not that old."
        "No, but--Gori's not as boyishly cute anymore. None of us look like bright young kids. Look, Losa, we've been over this before . . ."
        "And I didn't like it then . . ." She had abandoned the fake slouch for her more normal upright posture; he had never seen anyone but a dancer with such a back and neck. He could remember the feel of it under his hands . . . but that had been years ago. Now they were only partners in work. He pulled his mind away from the thought of Losa rejuved to . . . perhaps . . . eighteen . . .
        "Look, it's simple. If we want to survive in this field, we have to convince clients we're successful. Successful consultants are rich--and rich people are rejuved. We're still getting contracts, but not the best contracts. In ten years, the kind of contracts we're getting will go to the new bright young things--or to our present competitors who've managed to afford rejuv."
        "We could cut back--" That was Gori, with no conviction in his voice. They had discussed this before; even Gori didn't really want to live like an impoverished student again.
        "No." Arhos shook his head. "It's suicide either way. To save out enough for rejuv, even one at a time, we'd have to cut expenses--this office for one--and that would make us look like losers. We need to rejuv--all of us--within the next five years. With the revelations about those contaminated drugs, the price will go up and stay up just when we need it most."
        "Which comes down to more contracts," Losa said. "Except that we can't do more without hiring more--and that drives our cost up."
        "Maybe. We need some new ideas, contracts that will give us a higher margin of profit, and not require any more expenditures."
        "From your tone I'd gather you already have some."
        "Well . . . yes. There are specialties which pay a much higher rate . . . for which we are already qualified."
        Losa's lip curled. "Industrial sabotage? We don't want to try that with Fleet . . . not with the current mood."
        "Public opinion's on their side right now because of the Xavier affair--that Serrano woman is a hero--but in the long run what they'll remember is one hero and three traitors."
        "And we're to be traitors too?"
        Arhos glared at her. "No, not traitors. But--none of us got into this work because of any particular love for the Familias bureaucracy. Remember why we left General Control Systems. And then, as subcontractors, we've had the same piles of paperwork--"
        "You're talking about working outside Familias space? Won't that just mean a whole new set of paperpushers to contend with?"
        "Not necessarily. Not everyone outside is as tangled in red tape as the Familias. And it isn't necessarily against Familias interests . . . at least I don't see it that way."
        "You want rejuvenation," Losa said sharply, leaning forward.
        "Yes. And so do you, Losa. So does Gori. None of us have been able to increase our profits within the confines of Fleet contracts and subcontracts: too many fish in this pond, many of them with more teeth. So either we give up our ambitions, which I for one am not willing to do, or we find another pond. Ideally a pond that connects with this one, so we don't lose all the goodwill we've built."
        Losa heaved a dramatic sigh. "All right, Arhos . . . just tell us."
        He let himself smile. "We have a potential client who would like to have us disable a self- destruct device on a service ship."
        "Whose service ship? Fleet's?"
        Arhos nodded.
        "Not blow it up--disable its self-destruct?"
        "Right."
        "Why?"Arhos shrugged. "In this kind of situation it's not my business why . . . though I could speculate, I'd rather not."
        "And who is this potential client?"
        "He didn't say whom he worked for, but a little discrete data probe allowed me to estimate a very high probability that he's an agent for Aethar's World."
        Losa and Gori stared at him as if he'd sprouted horns. "You were talking to the Bloodhorde?" Losa asked, having beat out Gori by a breath.
        "Can we trust him?" asked Gori.
        "Not really," Arhos admitted, spreading his hands. "But the offer was . . . generous. And I suspect we can work up from it--he didn't sound as firm as he thought."
        "What kind of service ship?" asked Gori.
        "A deep space repair ship, one of those floating ship-factories crewed like an orbital station. Why anyone would put a self-destruct on it in the first place, I can't understand--it sounds dangerous to me, what if the captain goes crazy? And they want it disabled, is all."
        "I hate the thought of dealing with the Bloodhorde," Losa said. "And here we're talking about twenty or thirty thousand people--"
        "Military personnel," Arhos said. "Not ordinary people. They signed up for the risk. That's what they're paid for. And we need the cash. If we don't get the new rejuv procedure soon--"
        "But the Bloodhorde, Arhos! All those hairy, beefy types with their Destiny garbage! They belong back on their home planet, whacking each other with clubs and sitting around drunk singing . . ."
        "Of course they do." Arhos grinned at her. "They're barbarians, and we all know it. That's why I'm not worried . . . Fleet will be able to contain them just as they always have. And this job doesn't require us to damage Fleet--"
        "Disabling a ship system--"
        "A system that's never been used and never will be. DSRs never get into combat anyway, so I don't know why they even have self-destruct devices. I'd think they'd go the other way, make it impossible to blow them up. But apparently they do have such things, and the person who contacted me wanted it turned off."
        Losa sat up straight. "It's obvious, Arhos you can see--"
        He held up his hand. "I don't want to see--speculate, rather. It will have no effect on the DSR's function as a repair and maintenance facility; it won't kill anyone; it won't do anything but keep some hamhanded ensign from blowing the ship up by accident. In a way, you could think of our action as damage control . . ." Losa snorted, but he ignored her and went on. "And the good news is . . . they offered, before I started dickering, a fee that will cover rejuvenation for two of us." Into the silence around the table, he dropped the last piece of bait. "I got them up another half mil, and that means we have enough for all three of us. Net, not gross. After the job, of course."
        "The complete--"
        "New, with the newest, certified drugs. A margin for inflation while the job's on."
        Losa's thin face glowed. "Rejuv . . . just like that Lady Cecelia . . ."
        "Yes. I thought you'd see it that way." Arhos cocked his head at Gori. "And you?"
        "Mmm. I don't like the Bloodhorde, what I've heard about them, but . . . probably most of it's propaganda anyway. If they were so quarrelsome and technologically backward, they wouldn't have been able to hold their empire together the past century. I suppose it's in a solid currency?"
        "Yes."
        Gori shrugged. "Then I don't see a problem, as long as it's within our technical expertise. As you said, it's not like we're actually doing any damage to a ship, or to peoples' lives. A self-destruct isn't a weapon; we're not really depriving Fleet of anything." He thought a moment, then added. "But how're we going to get aboard the ship? And where is it?"
        Arhos grinned, this time more broadly. "We're going to get a contract. A legitimate contract. There's one up for bid, just posted this morning in fact. All the Fleet weapons inventory needs recalibration--the word is, they're afraid more traitors like Hearne could have diddled the guidance systems codes. It's such a big job, they've decided to put it out to all qualified consultants with the right clearances, regardless of size. I put in our bid on the way back."
        "But what if we'd said no to the other--?"
        "Then we'd have had a legitimate job. I bid for the contract in Sector 14 only, giving as a reason our small staff. It was listed as a bonus project, because of the distance from major nexi. I think we fit that profile very well--and besides, we can dicker with whoever gets it if we don't."
        "As long as we DO get paid," Losa said, with an edge of fierceness.
        "Oh, we will. The Bloodhorde representative is coming tomorrow--standard first-visit negotiations, but I want full security backup. He's likely to turn mean, for all that he's wearing a suit. He won't know about the other contract, and I'm going to try to get an additional travel and expense budget out of him."
        "Who else are we taking in on this job?" Gori asked.
        "The Fleet part of it, the usual team. This part--only the three of us. We don't want to share the fee, after all."
        "There's only one tricky point," Arhos said. "That's the civilian/Fleet interface on Sierra. It's the Sector HQ of a red-zoned sector . . . they do more than just glance at ID there." He glanced across the broad desk at the blond man in the expensive business suit.
        "Your IDs will be in order," the blond man said. He lounged back in his chair as if it were a throne, a posture which made the suit look as if it had been made for someone else, someone who knew how to sit without sprawling.
        "We could avoid the problem entirely by traveling with Fleet from somewhere else-- Comus, for instance."
        "No." Flat, rude, arrogant.
        "Explain."
        "It is not my place to explain. It is yours to comply with the contract." The blond man glared at the others.
        "It is not my place to be stupid," Arhos said. With a flick of his gaze, he ensured the blond man's continued existence for a space of time. How long depended on his mood, which the blond man was not helping. He reminded himself that the consulting fee transferred to the firm's account would pay for three and a half rejuvenations at the rate Gori had calculated would apply when they were through with the job. Fleet's fee for recalibrating all those weapons would give them something to live on. If they killed this messenger, they would have to deal with someone who might be worse. "If you want this done neatly, as you said, then you should listen to the experts."
        "Expert sneaks." That with the trademark Bloodhorde sneer. Clearly the blond man had no respect, a condition dangerous in itself, beyond unpleasant. Arhos allowed an eyelid to droop. Before it rose again, the blond man was gasping for breath, the noose around his thick neck grooving the skin. The chair in which he sat had flipped restraints onto his arms, and tightened them. Arhos did not move.
        "Insults annoy us," he said mildly. "We are experts--that's why you hired us. It is part of our expertise to travel unnoticed, accepted. It is my opinion that waiting until Sierra Station to enter Fleet jurisdiction will bring unwelcome notice. Civilian contractors, special consultants, normally join up with Fleet transport closer to their point of origin." He smiled. The blond man's face had turned an ugly puce; he made disgusting noises. But the blue eyes showed no fear, not even as they dulled with oxygen deprivation. He nodded, and the noose sprang away from the blond man's neck as if someone had pushed it. Someone had, remotely . . . .
        "Mother-devouring scum--!" the blond man croaked. He yanked hard, but the chair restraints held his arms down.
        "Experts," Arhos said. "You pay us, we do your job--cleanly, thoroughly. But don't insult us."
        "You will regret this," the blond man said.
        "I don't think so." Arhos smiled. "It is not my neck which has a mark from a noose. Nor will it."
        "If I were loose--"
        Arhos cocked his head to one side. "I would have to kill you, if you attacked me. It would be most unfortunate."
        "You! You are too little--"
        "Bloodhorde barbarian!" That from the other person in the room, the woman who had said nothing before, whose quiet demeanor fit the subordinate role she had seemed to have. "Do you still think size is everything, after all your defeats?"
        "Peace, Losa. It is no part of our contract to instruct this . . . individual . . . in the realities of hand to hand fighting. We have no reason to give him gratuitous data."
        "As you wish." She sounded more sulky than submissive.
        "Now," Arhos said. "We will expect half the fee on deposit with our bankers by midday tomorrow, the next fourth when we arrive at Sierra Station, and the final fourth when we have completed the task. No--" as the blond man started to speak. "No, don't argue. You lost your bargaining advantage when you insulted us. You can always hire someone else if you don't like my terms. You won't find anyone as good--you know that already--but it's your choice. Take or leave--which?"
        "Take," the blond man said, still hoarse from the noose. "Greedy swine . . ."
        "Very good." No need to mention that every insult now--after that warning--would raise the price of the job. One did not have to like one's customers if they produced enough profit, and Arhos--the best in his field--knew to a single credit how much it took to satisfy his feelings.
        Though the job itself was intriguing, a challenge he would not have thought of by himself, but one well worth the attempt. Not attempt, he thought . . . the achievement. He had no doubts; they had not failed in an assignment in years. Getting this buffoon out of the office quietly was the only problem that concerned him, once the buffoon had thumb- printed a credit authorization.
        "Nasty," Losa said, after the man had left. "And dangerous."
        "Yes, but solvent. We don't have to like them . . ."
        "You said that before."
        "It's true."
        "He scared me . . . he wasn't afraid, he was just angry. What if they want revenge for the insult?"
        Arhos looked at her, and wished she'd make up her mind what kind of person she was. "Losa . . . this is a dangerous business, and it's never bothered you before. We have good security; we'll be taking precautions. Do you want that rejuvenation, or don't you?"
        "Of course I want it."
        "I think you're just annoyed that I found the contract, and not you."
        "Maybe." She sighed, then grinned, as she rarely did now. "I must need one, turning into a cautious old lady before my time."
        "You're not an old lady, Losa, and now you never will be."
        

R.S.S. Harrier

        By the time the flagship reached sector headquarters, Esmay had begun thinking of the court as a door to freedom--freedom from the tensions and rivalries of a cluster of scared junior officers with not enough to do. While it made legal sense, she supposed, to keep them all isolated and relatively idle, it felt like punishment.
        Even the largest ship has limited resources for recreation; duties normally fill most of its crew's time. Esmay tried to make herself use the teaching cubes--she encouraged the others to use them--but with a knot of uncertainty lodged in the middle of her brain, the rest of it couldn't concentrate on anything as dry as "Methods for back-flushing filters in a closed system" or "Communications protocols for Fleet vessels operating in zones classified F and R." As for the tactical cubes, she already knew where she'd gone wrong coming back to Xavier, and there was nothing she could do about it now. Besides, none of the tactical cubes considered the technical problems she'd faced in starting a battle with a ship which had suffered internal damage in a mutiny.
        She could not work hard enough by day to ensure restful sleep at night. Physical exhaustion might have done that, but her share of the gym time wasn't enough to achieve that. So the nightmares came, night after night, and she woke sweat-soaked and gritty- eyed. The ones she understood were bad enough, replays of the mutiny or the battle at Xavier, complete with sound and smell. But others seemed to have drawn from memories of every training film, every military gory story she'd ever heard . . . all jumbled together like the vivid shards of a shattered bowl.
        She looked up at a killer's face . . . she looked down to see her own hands slimy with blood and guts . . . she stared into the muzzle of a Pearce-Xochin 382, which seemed to widen until her whole body could slide down inside it . . . she heard herself begging, in a high thin voice, for someone to stop . . . .NO. That time when she woke, tangled in damp bedding, someone was pounding on her door and calling for her. She coughed a few times, then found voice enough to answer.
        It was not a door, but a hatch: she was not home, but aboard a ship, which was better than home. She took the deep breaths she told herself to take, and explained to the voice outside that it had been just a bad dream. Grumbles from without: some of us need our sleep too, you know. She apologized, struggling with a rush of sudden, inexplicable anger which urged her to yank open the . . . hatch, not door . . . and strangle the speaker. It was the situation; tempers would naturally flare, and she must set an example. Finally the grumbler left, and she lay back against the bulkhead--the safe gray bulkhead--thinking.
        She had not had such dreams in years, not since leaving home for the Fleet prep school. Even at home, they'd been rarer as she got older, although they had been frequent enough to worry her family. Her stepmother and her father had both explained, at tedious length, their origin. She had run away once, after her mother died, a stupid and irresponsible act mitigated by youth and the fact that she was probably already sick with the same fever that killed her mother. She had found trouble, a minor battle in the insurrection now known as The Califer Uprising. Her father's troops had found and rescued her, but she'd nearly died of the fever. Somehow, what she'd seen and heard and smelled had tangled with the fever during the days in coma, and left her with the bad dreams of something which had never really happened. Not as she dreamed it, anyway.
        It made sense that being in a real battle would bring back those old memories and the confusion the fever engendered. She really had smelled spilled guts before; smells were particularly evocative . . . that was in the psychology books she had read secretly in Papa Stefan's library, when she had believed she was crazy as well as lazy and cowardly and stupid. And now that she understood where the nightmares had been leading, trying to link her past experiences with her present, she could deal with this consciously. She had had nightmares because she needed to make the connection, and now that she had it, she would not need the nightmares.
        She fell asleep abruptly, dreaming no more until the bell signaled the time to wake. That day she congratulated herself on figuring it out, and instructed herself to have no more nightmares. She was tense at bedtime, but talked herself out of it. If she dreamed, she did not remember it, and no one complained of the noise she made. Only once more before they reached Sector HQ did she have a nightmare, and that one was even easier to understand. She dreamt she came into the court martial and only when the presiding officer spoke discovered that she was stark naked. When she tried to run out, she could not move. They all looked at her, and laughed, and then walked out, leaving her alone.
        It was almost a relief to find she could have normal nightmares.
        At Sector HQ, her replacement uniforms were ready, delivered directly to the quarantine section aboard the ship by guards who clearly felt this beneath their dignity. The new clothes felt stiff and awkward, as if her body had changed in ways that measurements could not reflect. She had used the minimal fitness equipment in the quarantined section daily, so the difference wasn't flab. It was . . . something more mental than physical. Peli and Liam groaned dramatically when they saw their tailors' bills; Esmay said nothing about hers, and only later realized they assumed she had no resources beyond her salary.
        For the first time, the young officers were called before the admiral as a group. Esmay wore a new uniform; so did everyone else. An armed escort led them; another closed in behind. Esmay tried to breathe normally, but could not help worrying--had something else gone wrong? What could it be?
        Admiral Serrano waited, expressionless, as they all filed into the office, packed in so close that Esmay could smell the new fabric of their uniforms. The Admiral had responded to each formal greeting with a little nod, and a flick of her eyes to the next in line.
        "It is my duty to inform you that you have all been called before a court to explain, if you can, the events leading up to the mutiny aboard Despite and the subsequent involvement of that ship and crew in action at Xavier."
        Esmay heard nothing from behind her, but she felt the reaction of her fellow officers; though they had known it must happen, the formal words delivered by an admiral of the Fleet struck with awesome force. Court martial. Some officers served from commissioning to retirement without being threatened with an investigation, let alone a hearing before some Board . . . and certainly without standing a court martial. A court martial was the ultimate disgrace, if you were convicted; it was a blemish on your career even if you were acquitted.
        "Because of the complexity of this case," the admiral went on, "the Judge Advocate General has chosen to handle it with utmost circumspection but also utmost gravity. The precise charges have not been determined for each of you, but in general, the junior lieutenants can expect to see charges of both treason and mutiny, which the JAG is not considering mutually exclusive defenses, one for the other. That is, if you were a party to treason, this does not defend against a later charge of mutiny, and vice versa." The admiral's bright black eyes seemed to bore into Esmay's. Did she mean something particular about that? Esmay wanted to blurt out that she was not and had never been a traitor, but discipline kept her jaw locked.
        The admiral coughed delicately, clearly a social cough, a punctuation in what she said. "I am authorized to tell you that the reason for this is the high level of concern about Benignity influence in the officer corps. It would not have been feasible to ignore that possibility in this case; your defense counsels will explain it to you. The ensigns are being charged with mutiny only, except in one case where investigation is still in progress."
        "But we haven't even seen a defense lawyer!" complained Arphan from the back. Esmay could have swatted him; the idiot had no right to speak.
        "Ensign . . . Arphan, isn't it? Did anyone give you leave to interrupt, Ensign?" The admiral needed no help from a Jig to squash a feckless junior. "No, sir, but--"
        "Then be silent." The admiral looked back at Esmay, who felt guilty that she had not somehow gagged Arphan, but the admiral's look conveyed no rebuke. "Junior Lieutenant Suiza, as the senior surviving officer, and former captain of a mutinied ship in combat, your trial will necessarily be severed from that of the officers junior to you, although you will be called to testify in their trials, and they in yours. Additionally, you will face a Captain's Board of Inquiry to investigate your handling of Despite in battle."
        Esmay had expected this, in one way, and in another had hoped that one investigation and judicial ordeal might subsume the other.
        "Because of the unusual circumstances of the Xavier situation, including the actions taken by Commander Serrano, it has been determined that you should all be transported to Fleet Headquarters for these courts martial on another vessel."
        Esmay blinked. They didn't trust Admiral Serrano because of her niece? Then she remembered all the rumors--now demonstrably untrue--about Heris Serrano and her departure from Fleet.
        "Commander Serrano will of course be facing a Board of Inquiry herself, and three of you will be called to testify to that Board." Esmay could not imagine who might be thought to have useful information there. "You will be allowed communications access to notify your families, and if possible speak with them directly, but you are not to communicate with anyone other than your families. Specifically, you are ordered, under penalty, to avoid discussion of this case with anyone in or out of Fleet except your defense counsel and each other. I strongly recommend that you not discuss this among yourselves any more than you already have. You will be closely observed, not always by those who have your interests at heart. You will be met at Fleet Headquarters by your assigned defense counsel, and you will have the usual resources then to prepare yourself for court." The admiral's gaze raked the lines for a moment; Esmay hoped no one would ask stupid questions, and no one did.
        "You're dismissed," the admiral said. "Except for Junior Lieutenant Suiza." Esmay's heart sank through her bootsoles and the deck she stood on. She stood while the others shuffled out, watching the admiral's face for any clue. When they had all gone, the admiral sighed.
        "Sit down, Lieutenant Suiza." Esmay sat. "This is going to be a difficult time for you, and I want to be sure you understand that. Yet I don't want to panic you. Unfortunately, I really don't know you well enough to know how much warning it takes to scare you too much. Your record, as an officer, doesn't help me along. Can you?"
        Esmay kept her jaw from dropping with an effort. She had no idea what to say; for once Yes, sir wasn't enough. The admiral continued, more slowly, giving her time to think."You did very well at the Academy prep school; you were rated high, not brilliantly, in the Academy itself. I would guess you're not the sort to look up your own fitness reports--is that right?"
        "Yes, sir," Esmay said.
        "Mmm. So you may not know that you've been described as 'hard worker, willing, not a leader' or 'steady, competent, always completes assignments, shows initiative with jobs but not people, leadership potential average.'" The admiral paused, but Esmay couldn't think of anything. That's about what she'd thought of herself. "Some of them say you're shy, and others just say quiet and nondemanding . . . but in a lifetime in the Fleet, Lieutenant Suiza, I've never seen this sort of fitness report--one after another, from the prep school all the way through--coupled with the kind of decisive leadership you showed with Despite. I've known some quiet, unassuming officers who were good in combat--but there was always, somewhere in the background, at least one little glint from that undiscovered diamond."
        "It was an accident," Esmay said, without thinking. "And besides, it was the crew who did it, really."
        "Accidents," the admiral said, "do not just happen. Accidents are caused. What kind of accident do you think would have resulted if Junior Lieutenant Livadhi had been senior?"
        Esmay had wondered that; in the aftermath of battle, Liam and Peli both had been sure they would have chosen a different insertion velocity and vector, but she remembered the look on their faces when she'd announced they were going back.
        "You don't have to answer," the admiral said. "I know from his interviews. He would have sent the same message you did, then hopped back to Sector HQ, hoping to find someone handy. He would not have taken Despite back, and although he can justly critique your tactics on system entry, he himself would have been far too late to save the situation."
        "I . . . I'm not sure. He's brave--"
        "Courage isn't the whole issue here, and you know it. Prudence and courage make good teammates; cowardice can be as rash as storycube courage." The admiral smiled, and Esmay felt cold. "Lieutenant, if you can puzzle me, I assure you that you are puzzling the rest of Fleet even more. It's not that they don't want you to have done what you did--but they don't understand it. If you can hide that level of ability, all these years, under a bland exterior, what else are you hiding? Some have even suggested that you are a Benignity deep agent, that you somehow set up Commander Hearne and engineered a mutiny, just to get yourself known as a hero."
        "I didn't!" Esmay said without thinking.
        "I don't think so myself. But right now there's a crisis of confidence all over the Familias Regnant, and it has not spared the Regular Space Service. It was bad enough to discover that Lepescu was making sport of killing Fleet personnel, but to find that three traitorous captains could be dispatched to something like Xavier--that has shaken the confidence of Fleet Intelligence, as well it should. By all rights, you should be whisked through the obligatory court as quickly as possible, and then hailed as the hero you are-- and don't bother to deny it. You are. Unfortunately for you, circumstances are against you, and I expect you and your defense counsel will have a rugged few weeks. Nor is there anything I can do about it; right now my influence could only harm you."
        "That's all right," Esmay said. It wasn't all right, not if she understood Admiral Serrano's implications, but she could certainly see why the admiral couldn't change reality. Growing up a senior officer's daughter had taught her that, if nothing else. Power always had limits, and banging your head on them only hurt your head.
        The admiral was still looking at her with that intense dark gaze. "I wish I knew you and your background better. I can't even tell if you're sitting there complacent, reasonably wary, or terrified . . . would you mind enlightening me?"
        "Numb," said Esmay honestly. "I'm certainly not complacent; I wasn't complacent even before your warning. I know that young officers who get involved with mutinies, for whatever reason, always have a stained record. But whether I'm reasonably wary or terrified--that I don't know myself.""Where did you develop that kind of control, then, if you don't mind my asking? Usually our intakes from colonial planets are all too easy to read."
        It sounded like genuine interest; Esmay wondered if it was, and if she dared explain. "The admiral knows about my father . . . ?" she began.
        "One of four sector commanders on Altiplano; I presume that means you grew up in some kind of military household. But most planetary militia are less . . . formal . . . than we are."
        "It began with Papa Stefan," Esmay said. She was not entirely sure it had really begun there, because how had Papa Stefan accumulated the experience he passed on? "It's not like Fleet, but there's a hereditary military . . . at least, the leading families are."
        "But your file says you were raised on a farm of some sort?"
        "Estancia," Esmay said. "It's--more than a farm. And fairly big." Fairly big hardly described it; Esmay didn't even know how many hectares were in the main holding. "But Papa Stefan insisted that all the children have some military training as they grew."
        "Not all military traditions value the absolute control of facial expression and emotion," the admiral commented. "I gather yours does."
        "Mostly," Esmay said. She couldn't explain her own aversion to unnecessary display of emotion, without going into the whole family mess, Berthol and Sanni and the rest. Certainly Papa Stefan and her own father valued self-control, but not to the degree she practiced it.
        "Well . . . I wanted you to know that you have my best wishes in this matter," the admiral said. She was smiling, a smile that seemed warm and genuine. "After all, you saved my favorite niece--excuse me, Commander Serrano--and I won't forget that, no matter what. I'll be keeping an eye on your career, Lieutenant; I think you have more potential than even you suspect."

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• Once a Hero Title Chapter One
• Once a Hero Title Chapter Three