Their ship’s artificial gravity wobbled as Simkins tried to maneuver sharply enough to get a good angle on the third Bloodhorde ship. It had boosted toward Koskiusko, then veered as both Esmay and Bowry went after it.
“It’s launched missiles,” Lucien said, just as Koskiusko’s scan tech told them the same thing. “Tracking . . . one flight at Kos and one each at us and Bowry. Lousy aim . . . you’d think with a target the size of Kos—”
Esmay ignored that, and told Simkins to get the last bit of acceleration out of the ship.
“We’re not going to make it,” Arramanche said. “It—”
Wraith’s position lighted up on Lucien’s scan.
“All hot,” Lucien said. “I didn’t know they had that much left—”
“Got him,” said Seska calmly in Esmay’s headset. And the entire portside array of beam weapons focussed on the fleeing Bloodhorde ship, overwhelming its shields . . . the screen flared again, a final time.
“Captain to Captain,” Bowry said. “I’d say there’ll be no rank-pulling on this raid, eh? One each, that’s pretty fair shooting. Even if two of them were sitting ducks.”
“Not our fault,” Seska said. “Besides, you two had to get ’em with their own guns—that brings the challenge up to an acceptable level.”
“Thank you,” Bowry said.
Esmay grinned at her crew. “All right, let’s get this thing back to Kos before someone else takes a potshot at us.”
“There’s nobody in this system who’d dare,” Arramanche said.
Esmay brought Antberd’s Axe back to the test cradle with no flourishes; a Koskiusko crew waited to talk them into the docking pad and tie the little ship down with “appropriate care.” She supervised the powerdown, the locking of weapons; she made sure the two Bloodhorde corpses were bagged and turned over to the deck crew. Simkins handed her the little red key—an actual key, she was startled to note, completely unlike the command wands that Fleet used to unlock controls—and she tucked it into the holdall of her suit. Then she followed the others out of the ship, and closed the hatches herself.
When they got back to Koskiusko, back into aired space and out of suits that had acquired a stench all their own, Esmay thought she wanted only three things: a shower, a bunk, and word about Barin Serrano. Instead, she found herself the center of a shouting, laughing, crying, dancing mass of people. Her crew, Wraith’s crew, Bowry’s crew, coming at a dead run through the tunnel, and at least half the people who’d been left in T-3. She was hugged, pummeled, cheered. She and the other two captains were lifted shoulder high, carried through the passages toward the core . . .
Where she saw Admiral Dossignal, standing a little lopsided, near the lift tube cluster. Seveche and Major Pitak were beside him, watching her.
The crowd slowed, still exuberant but aware of stars and their implication. Esmay managed to wriggle down, and then make her way out of the crush.
“Sir—”
“Good work, Lieutenant! Congratulations to all of you.”
“Is there any word . . . ?”
“Of Ensign Serrano?” That was Major Pitak, sober-faced; Esmay braced herself for the worst. “Yes . . . he was found; he’s alive, but badly hurt.”
But alive. He had not died because she’d done nothing. With the knowledge that he was still alive—and surely if he was alive, he would be fine when he got out of the regen tanks—her heart lifted to impossible heights. She turned back to the crowd, hunting for those she knew.
“You did it!” she yelled at Arramanche. “You did it!” to Lucien. “We DID it!” with all the others, to all the others.
Admiral Dossignal leaned over to speak to Pitak through the din. “I think we can quit worrying, Major. I do believe life has given her that kick in the pants.”
Chapter Twenty
By the time Esmay finally got some sleep, while others headed Koskiusko back toward Familias space, her initial euphoria had worn away. She woke several times, her heart pounding from dreams she couldn’t quite recall. She felt angry, but couldn’t find a target for her anger. The Bloodhorde intruders were dead; no use to be angry with them. Nothing seemed right . . . but of course schedules and ship’s services were still upset. Those who had been aboard Antberd’s Axe with her came around for more congratulations; it was hard to give them the responses they deserved. She wanted to, but she felt empty of anything but unfocused irritation. When Lieutenant Bowry sought her out and told her he’d be glad to give her a strong recommendation for a switch to command track, she felt a prickle of fear.
Another sleep cycle helped, but in the next, one of the nightmares caught her again, this time vivid enough that she woke hearing herself cry out. She turned on the light, and lay staring at the overhead, trying to slow her breathing. Why couldn’t she get over this? She was not that child any more; she had proven it. She had commanded a ship—Despite didn’t count, but she allowed herself credit for Antberd’s Axe—and destroyed an enemy vessel.
Only because it had suspected nothing; only because its captain had been stupid. Her mind led her through the many ways every decision she’d made could have gone wrong. She had been hasty, impulsive, just like that child who had run away. She could have gotten everyone killed.
Others thought she had done well . . . but she knew things about herself they didn’t. If they knew everything, they’d understand that she could not really be qualified. Like a novice rider who might stay on over a few fences, she had been lucky. And she’d been supported by skilled crew.
It would be safer for everyone if she went back into obscurity, where she belonged. She could have a decent life if she just kept out of trouble.
Admiral Serrano’s face seemed to form before her. You cannot go back to what you were. Esmay’s throat tightened. She saw the faces of her crew; for a moment she could feel the surge of confidence that had freed her to make those critical decisions. That was the person she wanted to be, the person who felt at home, undivided, the person who had earned the respect the others gave her.
They would not respect her if they knew about the nightmares. She grimaced, picturing herself as a cruiser captain who followed each battle with a round of nightmares . . . she could see the crew tiptoeing around listening to the thrashing and moaning. For a moment it seemed almost funny, then her eyes filled. No. She had to find a way to change this. She pushed herself up, and headed for the showers.
The next shift, word came down that Barin was out of regen and could have visitors. Esmay didn’t really want to know what horrors he’d endured, but she had to visit him.
Barin’s eyes had no light in them; he looked less like a Serrano than Esmay had ever seen him. She told herself he was probably sedated.
“Want some company?”
He flinched, then stiffened, looking past her ear. “Lieutenant Suiza . . . I hear you did good things.”
Esmay shrugged, embarrassed again. “I did what I could.”
“More than I did.” That with neither humor nor bitterness, in a flat tone that sent prickles down her spine. She could just remember that flatness in her own voice, in that time she didn’t want to think about.
She opened her mouth to say what he had, no doubt, already been told, and shut it again. She knew what others would have said—it had been said to her—and it didn’t help. What would help? She had no idea.
“I don’t belong,” Barin said, in that same flat voice. “A Serrano . . . a real Serrano, like my grandmother or Heris . . . they’d have done something.”