The Serrano Succession (104 page)

"Yes, but you knew more about Fleet, I daresay, and you were glad to show your expertise."

"I suppose," Barin said, and reached for the bread himself. "She did ask me things."

"Yes. And you generously instructed her. And that's fine, so far as it goes. Tell me how much you've learned about Altiplano."

"Er . . . not much." It occurred to Barin that he hadn't even considered learning more about Altiplano.

"Tell me—what about those women the news media called your NewTex wives? What does your Esmay think of them?"

"Oh, them . . . they're not a problem anymore." He hadn't thought of them in months, since his pay was no longer being garnished for their support. The professor's eyebrows went up, and he explained. "Someone Brun Meager knows found them a home on a colony world someplace . . ."

"Someone . . . someplace . . . ? That's not very specific. Do you feel any responsibility for them, these women who left their native world because they trusted your word?"

Put like that, it sounded as if he were an irresponsible selfish wretch. "I hadn't really thought about it, not since they left. They seemed happy enough to go there."

"Umm. Out of Fleet, out of mind? Only the standards here in Fleet are real to you? I suppose that's why you're so worried about being always junior to her."

"I hadn't thought of it like that," Barin said. He didn't want to think of it like that, and he was relieved when the waitress returned with their food. He dug into his food and hoped the professor would forget what they'd been talking about. But the professor, halfway through his steak, returned to the topic.

"If you worry about her rank, Barin, you'll make yourself miserable—and her, too. You can't grow by cutting her down. This is what I meant by your needing a wider base. If you see everything through the narrow filter of Fleet, date-of-commission and all that, then you can only regret being born later. But if you see that both of you can grow in all dimensions . . . then what will it matter? What kind of person cares, in twenty years, if you were commissioned a year or two after her? Who's wearing which insignia?"

"But that's how we . . ." His voice trailed off.

The professor hammered another nail in that coffin. "Rank isn't merit. Age isn't merit. Neither young nor old, high nor low, but only the action, honorable or not."

"You're quoting again," Barin said.

"Guilty as charged," the professor said, grinning. "It's part of my job, preserving ancient culture. Barin, there are dozens—probably hundreds—of ranking systems. Academic degrees . . . intellectual pedigrees, who you trained with . . . publications. Every organization in the universe has some kind of pecking order, and people who make themselves miserable because someone is ranked higher."

"You think competition is wrong?"

"Of course not! Ask my colleagues—they'll tell you I'm cutthroat when it comes to my career. But that's not all my life—and your profession of arms shouldn't be all of your life. A man who is just a scientist, or just a soldier, or just a woodcutter isn't a whole man. I'll tell you what I think a man is—and by man I don't mean a featherless biped or something who just happens to have human DNA and a Y chromosome. A man is a person who has learned—is learning, is willing to learn—to know himself. Who can face the truth about himself and go on living, who makes the right kind of difference in the world.

"Truth's not always easy," Barin muttered into his potatoes.

"Truth is never easy," the professor said. "Truth about yourself is the hardest. But men love, men protect those they love, men walk with honor. So can women—Kata would smack me with one of her carving tools if she thought I didn't know that—but right now, because we're both men, we're talking about men."

"What if you . . . make bad mistakes?" Barin asked.

"You fix them, as best you can," the professor said."Admit them, make amends, try again. I've certainly made them. Lots. It's how you learn."

"But other people can pay the price of your learning," Barin said.

"Yes, absolutely. And that's terrible, a burden you have to shoulder the rest of your life. It's happened to you, has it?" The professor didn't wait for an answer—he rarely did, Barin had noticed—but went right on. "Your Esmay's had that experience, or she will. If you have, then you'll understand her, and she'll understand you, those nights you wake up at 0300 and see it all happen again." The professor's voice had a steely edge now, like someone who had been there.

"You, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Smartass young scientists can make deadly mistakes too, Barin. Think we know more than we know, forget that between the theory and the device, between the equations and the engineering, things . . . change." He shook his head and applied himself to his food. Barin didn't know whether to ask more or just wait, and chose the easy way of finishing his own food.

As they waited for dessert, the professor started in again. "Kata and I have been married forty-two years, and I can tell you there were some stormy times. Weapons scientists don't get recognition, not even from peers, not early on. She had a name as a sculptor before I was through my first post-doc. She'd go off to some gallery show, where I could imagine all those rich men fawning on her. She loves shows; she'd come back all flushed and happy, and there I'd be with a sour taste in my mouth and a pile of tests I'd graded or something equally unglamorous."

"So what did you do?" Barin asked, fascinated.

"I drank too much for a while," the professor said. "Then I tried to boss her around, which is always bad, but particularly bad for a creative person's spouse, because they can lose their gift, at least for a while. Kata tried to be what she thought was a good wife, and the gallery owner came over and screamed at me for two hours one day about how I was a patriarchal retrograde mastodon who didn't deserve her and belonged in a history museum with a spear up my butt."

"So?"

"So I threatened to demonstrate to the gallery owner just how retrograde I was, which cost me a fine later, but it was good in the long run. I thought about it, and joined the Society for the Preservation of Antique Lore with my friend Barry. Met a lot of fascinating people, learned a lot about historical weaponry which turned out to be useful, though I can't tell you why, and worked off my frustrations on the field. Worked my way up to Knight-Commander of the White Brigade, which meant a lot of people fawned on me when they weren't trying to crack my skull in tournaments. Did wonders for my ego."

"And you're still married," Barin said.

"More to the point, we still
want
to be married. Yes, I ogle the girls, especially the shy ones who need it more than you might think, and yes, Kata still purrs and preens when some rich old fart tells her how talented she is . . . but the fact of the matter is, we're each other's best friend, and partner, and that's how it is, was, and will be."

"It sounds . . . good."

"It's better than good. And what it takes is character, commitment, and time. You have to find a partner who's honest—because lying, even to yourself, will kill it. You have to find one who's brave, because let's face it, life is scary. Someone who's openhearted, not grasping. And then make the commitment—both of you. And if you find that person of character, and stick with it, you'll get the honey in the comb."

"Esmay has character . . ."

"That's what attracted you, probably, besides your hormones. You come from a heritage of character. And you know she has courage."

"Yes . . . but I'm not sure I'm a match for her."

"Ah. So we're back to matching again. It's not a race; it's not a contest. All you have to do is be honest, brave, and true—something you were bred for, if I'm any judge. If that's too much, you can always change your mind, decide that the marriage was a mistake. You can walk away. You can walk away from those NewTex women and never give them another thought, too. But if you walk away from too many of your responsibilities, you aren't a man anymore; you're a parasite. It's addictive, walking out on things."

"I don't want to walk out on her," Barin said. "But I don't know how to be what I need to be."

"You already are," the professor said. "You're just barely old enough to grasp this point, but I'll try anyway. You're comparing yourself to Esmay and your Serrano relatives. You don't need to be anyone else, Barin. You need to be you, because you are enough. Anyone—anyone at all—can be enough. Smart enough, brave enough, good enough."

"You sound so sure."

"I'm not exactly a spring chicken; I've seen a lot of military men. I've seen Meharry around you. He's not a fool; he's not going to give his loyalty to an idiot, a coward, a dolt." That bright eye speared him again. "The fact is, you're revealed by your creation, and a military commander's creation is the way his people act. You determine their bond, their morale. If your people get better, then you're a good commander; if your people get worse . . . look to yourself. Meharry was nearly a wreck when we picked him up; I don't know what hurt him so badly, but I do know what got him back: you did."

"Oh." Barin digested as they ate dessert. "So . . . if I'm not competing with Esmay, then . . . we sort of grow in parallel?"

"Exactly." The professor beamed at him. "It'll be easier if you'll broaden your base. Something that will help you—in your career, and as your wife's husband—is getting comfortable with more kinds of people. How many civilian friends do you have?"

"Civilian friends?"

"Yes. We're not all dolts, you know. There are a lot of us. The more you know about civilians—all kinds of civilians—the more perspective you'll have. The higher you go, the more you'll have to interact politically as well as militarily."

"I never thought of that." Barin thought now. Civilians as something other than more or less docile sheep in serious need of shepherding had never crossed his mind. He was startled to realize that he didn't know any . . . that his closest approach to civilians had been those depressed and frightened women and children from Our Texas. They had needed his help, his guidance, his support . . . that's what he expected from them.

"Militaries always rest on the foundation of a civilian population," the professor said. "They don't feed themselves, or supply themselves . . . someone grows the food you eat, makes the cloth for your clothes, builds the ships, manufactures the weapons . . . and that's not counting trade, entertainment and the arts. Start now building your networks in all these areas."

"I guess I can use you for the sciences," Barin said.

"You could indeed."

"But . . ." Barin drew lines on the table with his dessert fork. "I still don't know if I want to go back into space."

"After being blown up, I don't wonder. And you don't have to. Not a race, remember. Not a contest. You can be an honorable, decent man and a good husband to Esmay if you never go out on a ship again."

"Mmm." That was a new thought, and a hard one. Unaccountably, just thinking it made him less afraid. Did he really want to stay on a planet the rest of his life? Not really. He had one reason to be scared and many reasons to go back to ships.

"Not that I think that's your path; personally I think you'll go out there and command a cruiser yourself someday. But what I think doesn't matter. It's your life."

"It is." Barin saw it then, a wavering vision that split and recombined like reflections on water . . . but lives—more than one life—in which he was someone he could respect. Someone Esmay could respect.

"If I were you, I'd check up on those women," the professor said, pushing back his chair. "You'll feel better for it."

Barin nodded, but his thoughts were on Esmay. Now he could feel for her the joy he should feel—she had a ship, her own ship. She would be magnificent.

They
would be magnificent.

With Kevil and Stepan's help, Brun studied the structure of the Grand Council, Seat by Seat. Unsurprisingly, Stepan had a file on every member old enough to be Seated, similar to the dossier they'd had on her. Brun began to see the Council as a vast overgrown sprawling tree of complicated relationships. Out at the ends were the individuals—some shiny green leaves, others spotted with mold or half eaten away by insects . . . some healthy green, others yellowing or even brown, about to fall. Behind them were histories—their own, those of parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She felt a constant bubbling amazement at the number of mysteries cleared up: why this uncle and that great-aunt refused to sit at the same table, why this minor family had bolted to the Conselline Sept seventy years before.

"We've made a lot of mistakes," Stepan told her. "We're a sept, not a collection of mythical saints. Individuals, families, all restless and twitchy about our place in the whole, just as individuals and families have always been." He pushed over another data cube. "Be sure you don't misplace this one. It's our analysis of Conselline Sept."