"Ah . . ." the interviewer's face took on a sympathetic expression that Goonar trusted about as much as he expected the interviewer to trust his own.
"He cares about me," Goonar said. "We grew up together, after all; we've been partners for ten years now. His daughter's my goddaughter; he had been my children's godfather. But he doesn't understand . . . I don't want another wife and family. I had the best, and lost them. Why should I risk so much again, for different people, and lose them again?"
"It's a hard life, alone," the interviewer murmured.
"Not really." Goonar leaned back and scratched his head. "I'm good at what I do. I'm earning a comfortable living. I have a position in our family. I don't need a wife." But he might need Bethya, his body told him. He didn't want to think about that.
"So, your cousin had been trying to get you to loosen up, and you hadn't enjoyed it—" the interviewer prompted.
"Well, I had, actually. I like theater, especially music dramas, as much as anyone. It had been fun, but I was sleepy, and wanted to spend another night downside, in the hotel. Basil insisted we had to get back to the ship. When we were in the shuttle, on the way, he told me he'd picked up a cargo, a theatrical troupe."
The interviewer's eyelids twitched, then his face returned to its schooled neutrality. "Is this what you told the authorities on Falletta?"
"No, of course not." Goonar puffed out his cheeks. "It was like this: Basil had us in the departure queue, with certified cargo. If I raised a stink, we could be stuck there for months, and I had time-critical cargo for here, among other places, with a hefty penalty for late delivery. If we hadn't been in the queue, it wouldn't have been so bad, but we were. I could cheerfully have killed Basil, but that wouldn't have done any good."
"So you knowingly accepted illicit cargo, including passengers . . ."
"You could put it that way. Meanwhile, the Benignity pressured the local government into delaying upshuttle flights, and departures from the Station. They said something about stolen property or fugitives—they didn't specify which, or what. I noticed that a lot of ships had left the Station as soon as the Benignity diplomatic mission arrived in the system—and they shouldn't have known anything about it until it arrived at the Station, unless the Stationmaster let them know. And he's a Conselline . . . and so were the ships that left, all under sept flags. I didn't know what was going on, but it didn't look like an ordinary search for stolen property to me. I'm not that green; I know when something's gone missing across borders—what usually happens is their police contact our police."
"So what's the real story?"
"I don't know it all. I told the actors' troupe leader that I didn't want to know anything—they could tell their story to you, and I'd report it as soon as we arrived in a safe place."
"Er . . . how much of this does the Falletta security team know?"
"Nothing of our cargo," Goonar said. "It was my judgment that the fewer people who knew about whatever it was, the better."
"I see," the interviewer said. "And when are you going to deliver the fugitives—if they are fugitives?"
"Whenever you say. At any rate, I'm not leaving here with them."
"Oh, but you are," the officer said. "At least, that'll be my first recommendation. Whatever they have that the Benignity wants so badly, we don't want it rattling around out here. We have enough problems already. What's your next scheduled stop?"
"Trinidad, then Zenebra, then Castle Rock . . ."
"Fine. You keep them until Castle Rock, and deliver them to Fleet HQ."
"I can't do that!" Goonar didn't have to feign dismay. "We don't—Terakian doesn't—run errands for Fleet. We're neutral."
"Nobody's neutral now." The man leaned forward. "Listen, Captain—if you were really neutral you'd have left these people there. If you didn't care who won the next war, you wouldn't have defied the Benignity. You're not neutral: you're honest. There's a difference. I'm trusting you, here. I think, as you do, that whatever the Benignity wants that badly must be of benefit to our side, and I'm trusting you to get it to Fleet HQ, because I don't think anyone else could do it better."
"But—if they really believe whatever it is got away, then they have to think it's on our ship. We'll be marked—"
"There is a way around that, more or less. They can certainly think you offloaded whatever it was at this point. You can debark the Falletta security team here, for instance. As long as they don't know about the others—"
"They're convinced the others are legitimate Terakian crew."
"Well, then?"
"Except for all I know, the Benignity knows how many crew a Terakian ship usually carries."
"I doubt that. I certainly don't. It's never concerned the R.S.S., or most political entities, how many crew a ship has, only the ID of any crew who enter a station or go downside."
On the transit from Corrigan to Trinidad, Goonar made time to talk to Simon, the cause of the whole problem. Simon the stagehand—or fugitive—looked exactly as Basil had described him. Late middle-aged, with short silvery-gray hair going bald on top, a nondescript face, a medium-forgettable stature . . . and very bright, very intelligent brown eyes.
"I'm Goonar Terakian," Goonar said. "Captain of this ship. Can you tell me why I shouldn't just space you for all the trouble you've caused?" He had no intention of doing it, but he thought this might startle some information out of the man who had looked altogether too self-possessed when he came in.
"It would be a sin," Simon said slowly. "Though I'm not sure what your beliefs are—do you consider spacing people wrong, or not?" He seemed utterly unconcerned about the possibility—did he think Goonar wouldn't space anyone, or did he not care if it happened to him?
Goonar blinked and changed his approach. "Wrong, of course. But I also think it's wrong to come sneaking aboard ships and get them in trouble with the authorities."
"Discourteous," the man said. "I'm not sure I'd agree on wrong, at least not at the same level as spacing someone."
This was not going to be easy. Goonar felt himself getting hot behind his ears, a bad sign. He took a slow breath, trying to stay calm and not think of what he wanted to do to Basil. "Simon, Terakian & Sons has been careful to avoid carrying fugitives—"
"Then why didn't you let them take me off at Falletta?"
"Once aboard, you became my responsibility. I was not going to let foreigners on my ship. But we simply cannot afford to have you destroying a reputation we've built over generations . . . I need to know why you're a fugitive, and I must tell you that I'm going to turn you over to the authorities when we get to Castle Rock."
"I'm a heretic," Simon said. "At least, that's what they call me. Actually . . . I prefer to call myself an enlightened theologian."
"This is . . . a religious issue?" Simon nodded. Goonar frowned. "I didn't know the Benignity cared that much about religion."
Simon's eyes widened. "You—but—but don't you know that we're the one place where the true faith has survived?"
Goonar blinked. "Which true faith? I know a dozen sects—two dozen—each claiming to be the one true faith."
"That's what is wrong with the Familias Regnant," Simon said earnestly. "Too many sects, too many different belief systems not founded on the truth."
"And there's only one in the Benignity?" Goonar asked.
"Yes, of course. Officially, at least. I suppose there are pockets of other beliefs here and there—people are so superstitious, you know."
"So . . . if they think you're a heretic, does this mean you've strayed from this truth?"
"They think I have," Simon said. "But actually I haven't. They have."
Another religious nut. Goonar had not forgotten the young drunk in the bar at Zenebra Station, and though that one had been far more obnoxious than Simon, he still considered Simon one of the same type. At least for now.
"So . . . why are they so anxious to catch a heretic?" Goonar asked, deciding that this was what he really needed to know. Tha
t and how anxious . . . was the Fortune going to be in danger after he'd delivered Simon to Castle Rock?
"Because I was the Chairman's confessor," Simon said. "His last confessor, anyway."
Goonar fished about in his mind for the term but finally had to ask: "What's a confessor?"
"A priest someone tells their sins to. In private. Under the seal of confession, which means that priest can't ever tell anyone else what the person said. Now ordinarily, I wouldn't have been the Chairman's confessor, but I was there, in the palace, and his regular confessor got sick. A priest is a priest, at times like this, so—" He spread his hands.
"A heretic . . ." Goonar said. It didn't seem reasonable to him.
"Not yet declared one. I'd gone up to the city to talk to my superiors, you see. To explain where they—or their predecessors—had misinterpreted the applicable passages—but I'd not yet done so."
"I see," said Goonar, who didn't see, but wanted Simon to finish his story.
"Well, then, I heard the Chairman's last confession, and then he was executed—"
"Wait! Executed?" Goonar hadn't meant to interrupt but he couldn't help himself.
"Yes. I can't tell you why, because he told me during his confession. Anyway, they killed him, and that was that, except that a few days later, after hearing my testimony and arguments, the church decided that I was a heretic. Had been one for at least two years, the time in which I'd been working on that thesis. Which meant the late Chairman's confession had been heard by a heretic, which was more than a little irregular. They were afraid I'd tell, you see. Because of being a heretic."
"Um. They think you know some secrets the Chairman told you, which you could be trusted not to tell if you'd not been a heretic, but now they think you'll blurt it all out?"
"Yes. They know I know things which no one else knows—should know—because they trust that the late Chairman made a full and complete confession, and that would naturally include many things about the internal workings of the government."
"Did he make a full and complete confession?" Goonar asked, fascinated by the whole idea. "And how would you know if he did or not?"
"God would know," Simon said. "God would know, and an experienced priest can usually tell. I certified that the Chairman had made such a confession."
Which did not exactly answer his question directly, but Goonar let it go. Something else struck him. "So . . . they didn't trust you to keep it quiet, and the first thing you do is run toward their enemy?"
"Not the first thing," Simon said. "I tried to explain that I took my vows seriously, that I would never violate the confessional. But it was clear they didn't believe me; the new Chairman, in particular, did not trust me. I—I am willing to die for my faith, Captain Terakian, but not for a misunderstanding. So I fled. As a scholar, I had traveled widely, teaching and doing research in many places, so I knew how to travel discreetly. Most of the time. I had intended to slip across to the Guerni Republic, which is shockingly liberal in its views on religion, but has a marvelous set of archives where I thought I could find more material to prove my case. But then they found my trail." He paused.
"So how did you end up with a theatrical troupe?" Goonar asked.
"God guided me," Simon said. Goonar blinked, thought about asking more, and decided it could wait for another day.
Trinidad Station
Reception at the Regular Space Service sector of Trinidad Station swarmed with hurried, anxious Fleet personnel trying to make connections to their assigned ships, and equally hurried, anxious Fleet personnel trying to keep track of them.
Esmay Suiza-Serrano stepped into the ID booth and waited for the ping that would mean she'd matched her reference values. Instead, she heard the door snick shut behind her, and the little flashing light that should have gone green and steady went red and frantic instead. A mechanical voice said, "Do not attempt to exit the booth; remain in place until Security personnel release the lock. Do not attempt to exit the booth; remain in place . . ."
A soft whoosh from beside her, and the voice cut off. She turned to look and found herself facing the ominous maw of a weapon, with a very tense Security guard in armor behind it.
"Hands on your head, step this way."
In the face of the weapon, Esmay didn't argue. She knew she was who she said she was; she knew she hadn't done anything criminal, but this was not the time to say so. She put her hands on her head and stepped this way.
Beyond the booth, two more guards waited, both armed, with weapons drawn. The first guard picked up her carryon from the booth, and the other two waved her ahead of them down a corridor considerably quieter than the reception hall had been.
"In here." Here was a small compartment where a female security officer searched her thoroughly under the watchful eyes of the guards and the very obvious scan units mounted in the corners.
"You may sit down," the security officer said finally. Esmay sat down, more disturbed than she liked to admit to herself.
"Is there something wrong with the ID scan?" she asked.
"Not a thing," the officer said. "Wait here." She left, and the guards remained. The one carrying her bag had disappeared.
Time passed. Esmay thought of all the obvious things to say—there's been some kind of mistake, what's the matter, why are you holding me—and said nothing. Whatever was wrong, she might as well wait until she found someone in authority.
More time passed. She repressed a deep sigh and wondered if her former enemies, Casea Ferradi's friends, had framed her for some crime. Finally a very angry-looking commander stalked in and slapped down a folder on the table.
"I have orders to separate you from the Regular Space Service, as of today."
"What? What's going on?"
"I think you know very well, Lieutenant Suiza." His tone made a curse of her name. "And it would be best if you simply accepted the mercy of this separation with no more protests."
Despite herself, her voice rose a tone. "Excuse me, Commander, but according to the law I have a right to know what I stand accused of and a chance to defend myself."
"In a time of war, as you very well know, summary justice can take the place of a court-martial. Though if you prefer to sit around in a Fleet brig for the next year or so until we have time to convene a court, I'll inform the admiral of your request."
"I want to see the charges," Esmay said. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Oh? And what do you call seducing Admiral Serrano's grandson, in direct contravention of the rules prohibiting relationships between Fleet officers and Landbrides of Suiza? For that matter, you did not inform Fleet of your Landbride status until over a year after you became one—also a breach of regulations—"
"But that was because of the NewTex mess—"
"And you had concealed your family's political prominence as far back as your application to the Academy—"
"I did not!"
"And then you coerced the boy into marrying you."
So many things were wrong with that sentence that Esmay didn't know where to start. "He's not a boy—and I didn't coerce him—"
"And if you ask me, your so-called rescue of Lord Thornbuckle's daughter was an obvious ploy to gain political influence in that family—"
"What—I should have let her die?"
"You should have stayed back on your stupid dirt-ball planet and planted potatoes like the rest of your backward peasantry . . . Fleet has no place for your kind." He leaned forward, glaring straight into her eyes. "You're getting your discharge ID, more than you deserve. I don't care if you get home or not. I don't care if you live through the next hour. But if you cause the least trouble on this Station—anything at all—I will personally stuff you into an airlock and open it to vacuum. I am speaking for my CO and Admiral Serrano in this. Is that clear?"
What was clear was the uselessness of argument. Esmay took her credit cube—at least they'd given it back—and hoped she looked less shaken than she was on her way out. The looks she got
from personnel were less scathing than she'd feared. Either they didn't believe it, or hadn't heard it.
Once into the civilian side of the station, she ducked into a secure combooth to give herself time to think. Admiral Serrano. It had to be Vida Serrano, but . . . but Captain Atherton on the Rosa Gloria had said she'd accepted the marriage. Had she changed her mind? Why? She scolded herself: she had more immediate problems than answering that. She checked her balances in the credit cube and called up current rates for a ticket home. She could just get there, on a roundabout base-rate route that would take months and give her no chance to clear herself. She looked at the rates to Castle Rock. No direct passenger travel for another three weeks. She didn't dare stay here for three weeks, not with local brass looking for an excuse to arrest her.
The Serrano Succession Page 46
