The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  SUIZA, Esmay, most recent rank 0-3, most recent assignment, separated by order of Admiral Serrano, separation effected Trinidad—

  Barin stared at the date. Nine days ago. Halfway across Familias space.

  Rage blinded him to the rest of the screen. Admiral Serrano, his own grandmother, had taken revenge on Esmay, had kicked her out of the service she loved, and at a time when they needed every good officer. His grandmother—! She had double-crossed them, backstabbed them, and he would—would—

  His thoughts steadied. He was a jig, and his grandmother was an admiral major. He could be angry; he could hate her all he wanted, but he was a Fleet officer, with a war on, and trying to quarrel with her would help none of them.

  Where was Esmay? He had no idea. What was she doing? He could imagine her coming, trying to find him and let him know . . . or going somewhere—where?—to do something—what?—that he couldn't quite imagine. Rockhouse Major to protest to Fleet Headquarters? To Altiplano to settle down as Landbride? No, surely not that. Perhaps to find evidence that his grandmother's accusation about Suiza treachery was false.

  In the meantime, he had his duty, and even if his grandmother could so far forget hers as to inject personal vengeance into a real emergency, he wouldn't. As a jig aboard a ship headed for combat, he had plenty of duties, more than enough to keep him busy.

  In the junior officers' mess, the ensigns and other jigs looked up as he entered. They would not have heard about Esmay; that expression must mean something else.

  "Have you heard anything, Barin?" That was Cossy Forlin, who had been about halfway down his class at the Academy.

  "About the mutiny?" Barin said, finding his place. "No."

  "I just thought—with all your relatives—"

  "I wonder—" Luca Tavernos glanced at the entrance, and lowered his voice. "I wondered about the others—it's scary, nobody knowing whom to trust."

  "Like Despite," Cossy said. "How do we know—" He stopped abruptly as three lieutenants came in, and Lt. Marcion took the head of the table.

  Marcion glanced at the juniors, his expression unreadable. Then he pointed his fork at Cossy. "At least we know you aren't part of any conspiracy, Jig Forlin—conspirators know better than to say things with the doors open. Be glad your specialty isn't intelligence."

  Cossy reddened, but applied himself to his dinner.

  "So, Barin, does your family network give you anything useful?"

  "No, sir," Barin said. "You know the communications aren't exactly open."

  "And do you have any doubts about the loyalty of any personnel on this ship?"

  "No, sir, but if I did I would report it to the proper authorities."

  Marcion laughed. "I'm sure you would—you Serranos are a thorough bunch. What's your assessment of the mutineers' tactics?"

  "From the little I know, sir, I suspect they concentrated on the ships they stole, to make that strike on Copper Mountain. I'd be surprised if there were many left scattered on other ships."

  "You're assuming fairly small numbers to start with."

  "Smaller than the loyal contingent, yes, sir."

  "Interesting. I know a lot of people who were really upset with the changes Conselline imposed, starting with the new Minister of Defense."

  "Yes, sir, but not mutinous," Barin said. He quoted his grandmother. "'Politicians come and go, but the Fleet remains.'"

  "That was my reading, also—but I wanted the legendary Serrano opinion."

  Barin ignored this jibe. "What do you think the mutineers really want?" he asked. "Do you think it was Conselline's leadership that drove them to it, or what?"

  "I don't know," Marcion said. "I'm not one of them, after all, and imputing motives to enemies is a risky business. I'd be more inclined to think they took advantage of the absence of senior officers who were put on inactive status because of the rejuvenation issue. Your grandmother was caught in that, wasn't she, Barin?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "My guess is that in the command confusion that followed chopping off at least half the flag rank, they were able to make moves that might have taken a lot longer otherwise. Personnel was going crazy, trying to find people to fill billets suddenly open; promotion boards were meeting round-the-clock."

  "How'd you know that?" asked Cossy.

  "I was on a staff rotation at Headquarters. Admiral Stearns, to start with, then when she was made inactive, it was her replacement, Admiral Rollinby. I'd be there yet, except that the mutiny shuffled assignments yet again. Did you ever know Admiral Stearns, Barin? She said she knew your grandmother."

  "No sir," Barin said. "The . . . admiral had a lot of friends at Headquarters—"

  "So I gathered. Apparently she'd also been poking around the rejuvenation problem on her own—she and Admiral Stearns were on a study group of some kind."

  "Did you ever hear what happened with that, Lieutenant?" asked an ensign down the table.

  "Conselline killed the study. It reflected badly on his sept, of course, since it's very likely it was their drugs that caused the problem. But without funding for research or treatment, a lot of our people were in a pretty hopeless situation." Marcion paused. "There are times I find it difficult to stay as apolitical as regulations demand."

  That effectively ended the topic at dinner, and Barin finished his meal with nothing more than a polite request to pass the rolls. Others talked softly of sports scores or upcoming exams.

  After the meal, Barin found his mind ticking over more calmly. Why had someone hounded Esmay out of the service now? The first word they'd had back from their families had been disapproving but not explosive. Had more evidence of Suiza perfidy shown up? He didn't believe it. Serrano tempers blew quickly, and—in the absence of further hostile action—subsided almost as quickly. His grandmother had all the arrogance of flag rank, but she had always been fair.

  As far as he knew. And, he had to admit to himself, he didn't know her as well as he might. And the entry had said Admiral Serrano.

  But his grandmother wasn't the only Admiral Serrano. Hadn't been, even before the current crisis that brought all the flag ranks back to duty. Had the entry even said which Admiral Serrano? He hadn't really paid attention . . .

  And he couldn't now. Alarm sirens wailed in what he hoped was another one of the captain's drills. He double-timed through one corridor, slid down a ladder, and made it to his assigned station well within the time limit. The senior rating handed him the comp, and he started calling out names: "Ackman . . . Averre . . . Betenkin . . ." When the senior lieutenant came around, Barin had his section ready for inspection, lockers open and p-suits in hand. The lieutenant received Barin's report, and examined the p-suits as if he hadn't inspected them the day before.

  Barin was halfway down the bay when another siren whooped.

  Combat, from the bowels of a cruiser, was either boring or fatal. He'd been told that from the Academy on up. He hoped very hard for boring. Barin had a damage-assessment team which he was in nominal charge of, thanks to the shortage of senior NCOs—that due, of course, to the mutiny and the failed rejuvenations. Having been taught from the cradle that junior officers are inevitably less expert than the NCOs they command, he had a good relationship with the petty officer assigned to his section, a man with solid qualifications in damage assessment and damage control.

  For the next three hours, his team had no damage to assess. They checked and reported compartment temperatures, flow rates in various pipes, and a host of other readings that Barin knew were important, but which offered no clue at all to what was going on outside. The artificial gravity didn't fluctuate, the lights didn't flicker, nothing at all happened.

  When the stand-down came, Barin made his final report to the Damage Control Officer and returned to his regular duties. He was trying to read up on damage assessment and damage control—the junior officers' course for command track had nothing about it, and he found it heavy going.

  "It's not that hard, sir," one of the few rema
ining master chiefs told him. "Basically you've got stuff in pipes and stuff in wires, plus of course your air and your gravity."

  "It's all the different kinds of stuff in the pipes," Barin said. "And it says here that compartments may be filled with smoke or steam or—"

  "Most likely's water vapor condensation, if there's a pressure loss," the chief said.

  "So how are we supposed to know which pipe is which if we can't see it?"

  "Well, now, that's why you're supposed to know your section from the frames out. Of course, if they need you somewhere else—"

  "Chief, have you ever been in a ship that was badly damaged?"

  "Once from enemy action—back in the first Patchcock mess—and once from an idiot coming back from leave and showing off. He managed to knock a hole in a hydraulic line down in the shuttle bay; he'd have been up for discipline except the leak went right through him."

  "A leak?"

  "High-pressure line, son. See, he'd brought back a needler his cousin gave him for some holiday or other—which was against regs, of course. And he hadn't checked the ammunition that came with it—which was, we found later, the heaviest his cousin could buy. His cousin figured somebody on a cruiser needed something that could make holes in the hull, apparently—well, not quite, but almost. Anyway, this fool had to show it to a buddy of his, and they got to playing around, and sure enough—PING. Right through the lift line. Out came a jet, drilled right through him, down came the shuttle onto the deck a good bit harder than it should, and that popped two tires; a piece of one hit another guy in the head, and another piece hit a fellow holding a torch. Couldn't blame him for dropping it, when his arm was broke, but the torch caught something—I forget what—on fire. So then we had a fire, and a hydraulic leak, and since the hydraulic fluid was vaporized by coming out at such a pressure, what do you think happened?"

  "It blew up," Barin said.

  "That's right, it did. Old Harkness that was, who'd survived two full-scale engagements with Benignity battle groups, and because of one stupid idiot, she was scrap. Explosion in shuttle maintenance. But that was only the beginning. In those cruisers—and Harkness is one reason they're built different now—all the maintenance functions were clustered for efficiency. That included a warren of shops and parts storage lockers and so on, and—again for efficiency, as they saw it—the main nexi for electrical. We didn't just have one fire, or one explosion—captain finally had us cut away the weapons storage—thinkin' every minute the fire would reach us and we'd go up same as others already had—and jettison the whole thing. We fought it for over twenty-eight hours, and at the end we had barely life-support for the remaining live crew. Over three hundred dead, ship completely disabled—they had to take us off in p-suits, transfer us to another ship . . ."

  "Hydraulic fluid," Barin said. "I didn't know it would burn."

  "They've tried and tried to get something that will work better and be less flammable, but so far—if you vaporize it, and light it, it will go up. And don't forget, it'll slice you like a laser scalpel." The master chief sucked his cheeks for a moment. "Now the other," he said. "That wasn't so bad. Hull breach, but a cold one—heavy missile got through, but it misfired. A bit ticklish getting it out, and the poor fellows in there had died, but not nearly as bad. The only real problem was a youngster who wanted a souvenir, and was workin' away at the fusing access, so's he could get it off and hide it in his locker before we got there. Old Master Chief Meharry just about took his head off then and there. Could have blown us all up, he could."

  Barin wondered if that Meharry was related to his aunt's crewmember, Methlin Meharry.

  "Here—this is the best data-cube course we have," the master chief said, handing it to Barin. "You learn most from the trouble you live through, but that cube'll take you a bit farther than the others."

  "Thanks," Barin said, and resolved to spend every spare moment with it. He would know everything about Troop Deck, from the hull to the plumbing.

  What had actually happened in the battle wasn't clear until well into the next day, when the captain made an announcement to the crew. "We came out of jump to find a couple of mutineers—the admiral expected that, so we had everything hot. They were mining the jump point, but we blew through the first cordon with no damage, and all enemy ships are destroyed. We're credited with half a kill."

  Barin wondered how they knew the other ships were mutineers—if they had stopped to ask questions, the battle might have been more even, and far more dangerous for him.

  The battle group would stay insystem long enough to pick up the loose mines, then mine the jump point with its own, programmed to accept the changed Fleet IDs which the mutineers shouldn't have.

  Chapter Six

  Castle Rock, Appledale

  Brun Meager stroked the length of the pool, and splashed water on the woman lounging beside it. "Kate—come on in. You're being lazy."

  "The water's cold," Kate Briarley said. "I'd get cramp." The Lone Star Confederation Ranger had changed into a swimsuit, but had a towelling robe around her shoulders. Her datapad and comunit were beside her, as well as one of her many weapons, this one a black-matte needler.

  "You'd get exercise," Brun said. "Your whole planet can't be warm." Kate grinned, but shook her head. Brun rolled over and swam down the pool again. The water wasn't cold; the water was just right, as long as she kept moving. On her way back, she saw Kate was sitting up, talking into a comunit. Brun ignored her and flipped into a turn for another lap. She needed to work off tension anyway. Soon—in a day or so anyway—she would have to do something about her mother. And she had no idea what. She stretched, revelling in the feel of her body's strength and agility, the flow of cool water past her shoulders, her hips, her legs.

  As she came back down the pool, this time in sidestroke, she saw Kevil Mahoney come out of the house. He walked better now, without any aids, but unevenly. Would a rejuv help that? He couldn't afford it, not until they straightened out his financial problems, but she could provide it. She made a mental note to talk to the family medical advisors about it as she rolled into a crawl, and powered off the last fifteen meters, hoisting herself at the end with a rush of water.

  "Breakfast out here?" she asked. Then she blinked the water out of her eyes and saw their expressions. "What now?"

  "Hobart's dead."

  "What?"

  "Hobart Conselline is dead. At the hands of a visiting fencing master, if you can believe that."

  Brun grabbed a towel from the stack and scrubbed her head with it. She dropped that one, grabbed another to wrap around her shoulders. "When did this happen?"

  "Yesterday afternoon."

  "And we're only finding out now—?"

  "His sept put a lock on the news, to locate all the Barraclough Chairholders before it was announced."

  "His sept—!" Brun clamped her teeth together for a moment. "I see." She reached out to the table already set for breakfast, and touched its pad. "Staff—change of plans; we'll be eating inside, in the library. I'll be going in to the city as soon as I've dressed and eaten."

  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Kate asked.

  "I'm sure it's necessary." Brun looked at Kevil. He said nothing—he wouldn't, outside in an unsecured field—but his expression ended any doubts she might have had.

  It still felt strange to her, this sense of mastery that had come during her first Grand Council meeting after her father's death. It felt strange to walk into Appledale as if she owned it, even though she did, strange to feel no guilt about leaving wet footprints on the Issai carpets as she hurried upstairs. "I'll need a secure comlink to Buttons," she said to the guard on station in the entry hall—an innovation of Kate's that she now recognized as necessary.

  Upstairs, in the room she had always occupied, she toweled off, and stood a moment scowling at her wardrobe. Pregnancy had changed her body enough that many of her old clothes didn't fit. Dark mourning made her look sick; she needed to look healthy and competent. Fin
ally she chose a tailored suit in steel gray, and tucked a blue-patterned scarf into the neckline.

  When she came down, Kevil and Kate were in the library, already loading their plates from a serving table. Kate had changed from the red swimsuit into one of her less-flamboyant Lone Star suits, this one pale blue. Her high-heeled fringed boots were beside her chair; her stockinged feet looked absurd in the deep carpet.

  "It's clean," Kate said, waving at the room. Brun checked the scans and fields herself anyway and saw Kate nod approvingly.

  "So—a fencing master went bonkers and killed Hobart. What else?"

  "His sept claims it's conspiracy. By the Barracloughs—by you, in fact."