The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Or a very volatile, unstable neighbor, at the least," the ambassador said. "It is our intent to press for some restriction on repeatable rejuvenations—"

  "No!" yelled Oskar Morrelline; he was gavelled down.

  "Or some other reliable, measurable means of population control," the ambassador said. "What we want is a stable border—"

  "You just invaded us in Xavier a few years ago," someone pointed out.

  The ambassador folded his lips together, shook his head, and said, "Ser . . . it is not my mission to discuss what might have motivated the late Chairman to attempt an incursion into your space. That was his responsibility, and he is no longer able to answer our questions. It is my mission to inform you of these facts; that your Speaker, Hobart Conselline, was executed on the order of the late Chairman, who has paid for that order with his life, and that the reason for the order was his concern—which the present government shares—about the instability unrestricted rejuvenation might cause in both your internal politics and our relationship."

  "But it's none of your business what we do in our own space," someone else said.

  "Sera, we are neighbors. A fire in your house could loose sparks to burn ours."

  "But you can't expect us to just turn around and quit using a medical procedure that so many—"

  "Sera, I expect nothing, but to be heard. It is not my place to tell you what to do, only to tell you what my government thinks of what you do, and what my government might do in response to what you do."

  "Is that a threat?" Brun asked.

  The ambassador spread his hands. "I would hope we are very far from discussing threats."

  "And yet you killed Hobart Conselline."

  "The late Chairman ordered his execution, yes. It is not quite the same thing. The present government deplores that decision, and wishes most heartily that the late Chairman had found it possible to convey his concern in a less . . . striking . . . way."

  "By starting a mutiny, I suppose." That was Viktor Barraclough.

  "No, ser. We started no mutiny. We deplore the mutiny and consider it a serious threat to peaceful interaction between our governments. Though if you want our opinion—"

  "Oh, by all means . . . do give us your opinion." Viktor's sarcasm raised a nervous ripple of laughter. Even the ambassador smiled.

  "It may well come back to this rejuvenation problem. The lack of opportunities for the young would naturally show up first in a stratified and disciplined segment of society. And was there not some problem with the military rejuvenations?"

  Brun had the feeling that there was much more that the ambassador wasn't saying. It had been a Benignity agent on Patchcock, she remembered, who'd been involved in the production of substandard rejuv drugs, though she didn't know if it had been proved he was responsibile. Naturally . . . if the Benignity was worried about expansion, they'd try to cripple the military ahead of time, make it impossible to maintain a strong, experienced military force—the kind of force that could invade. Or protect against invasion.

  "Do you have more information for us, Ser Unser-Marz?" she asked.

  "Not more information, no."

  "Then I move that the ambassador be thanked for his information, and that he be asked to hold himself in readiness for more questions."

  "Are you trying to cut off discussion?" the ambassador asked.

  "No. But I see no benefit to the Familias in discussing this in front of you, Ambassador, with all due respect."

  "Agreed," said Viktor Barraclough. "I second the motion."

  "If I may—" the ambassador said.

  "Yes?" The Speaker looked confused.

  "I would like to assure the Council that I or my staff will be available to answer questions at any time, and I quite agree that my presence is unnecessary while you conduct your business. If I might be excused?"

  "Of course, Ambassador."

  After he left, Brun realized that no one had asked one crucial question: had he known ahead of time? But argument swirled around her, as it had after her father's death. Although most now seemed to accept the ambassador's statement that the Benignity had been responsible for Hobart's death, the news of Pedar's death hadn't yet reached them. She was fairly sure that would change things again. One death, that the Benignity admitted to, was one thing. Two deaths, so close together, and one of them indubitably her mother's doing?

  If they got out of this without a full-scale civil war, it would be a miracle.

  Chapter Seven

  R.S.S. Indefatigable

  Heris Serrano came aboard her new command, the R.S.S. cruiser Indefatigable, and made her way to the bridge with only half her mind on the rituals of honor and response. She slid her command wand into the captain's slot and entered her codes. The computer flashed a green response, code accepted, and an array of function pads came alight. The computer, at least, was still responsive to the Fleet master codes. Now to see about the humans.

  As she read herself in, the humans on the bridge looked as crew usually did during a change of command. The juniors stood stiffly at attention, focussed on her; the seniors kept one eye for the ship.

  She'd had no time to check the files on her new personnel, and none of them looked familiar. Without her own crew, she felt exposed . . . but this was her crew now. And wherever Petris was, wherever Oblo and Meharry and the rest were, they would be doing their duty as she was doing hers.

  When she'd read herself in, she called up the status reports on her console. Ship systems all came up as nominal, but supplies were limited. Not surprising, in the chaos of the mutiny; Indefatigable had been in for a major overhaul, her usual crew on long leave.

  "Captain, there's a stack of messages from HQ; should I route them to your office or here?" That was a major . . . Suspiro, she read from his nametag.

  "Here, please," Heris said. She would stay on the bridge, she'd decided, where she would be visible to more of the crew in this critical transition period.

  "Yes, sir. The eyes-only messages will require your H-scale decryption keys, one through seven."

  Heris inserted the command wand again, and reentered her authorization codes, unlocking the keys stored in her wand. From the console in front of her, a screen rose, its security wings extending to block the view of anyone else on the bridge. Eyes-only messages were a nuisance on ships like this, which didn't mount full-spec privacy booths. Heris fished in the drawer under the screen's lower edge for the visual filters that would complete the decryption for her alone and punched for the first message.

  That message was time-limited; the limit had passed. Heris deleted it after a brief scan of a proposed command structure pending investigations. The second message firmed up the new command structure, and the third informed her that she would be commanding not only Indefatigable but a small task force: two cruisers, four patrols, three escorts, and the usual supply and service ships. The fourth gave her personnel summaries, with the most recent security information; she saved that to a secure file for later consideration. Finally she had time to meet her new officers and find out more about them.

  Indefatigable had been assigned crew on the basis of first-come, first-assigned; as the designated flagship of the ships then in port, her commodore could trade off a few hands with others if necessary, but that was all. She had to have at least a few people who knew how to find their way around, or they'd have to spend a week in port.

  Heris called the senior officers to a meeting in her office. Commander Seabolt, who looked as if he'd been razor-cut from a recruiting poster, folded himself carefully into the chair to her left, and Heris immediately catalogued him as a regulator. Lt. Commander Winsloe, senior Weapons officer, could have been cut from the same mold, though she had a twinkle in her eye. Major Suspiro, Communications, had the slightly rumpled, twitchy look that Heris associated with really good commtech personnel. Major Vondon, Scan, was much the same, but taller. In Engineering, she had Major Foxson, quiet and gray-haired. Her chief Environmental officer, Lt. Com
mander Donnehy, was a cheerful chunky woman who arrived minutes later than everyone else, to a disapproving look from Seabolt.

  "Sorry, Captain," Donnehy said. "They just sent another batch of potential moles down, and I was trying to sort them out—"

  "Take a seat," Heris said. She turned to Seabolt.

  "Commander Seabolt, tell me about your previous assignment."

  He drew himself up even stiffer if possible. "I was aide-de-camp to Admiral Markham; the admiral has been second in command of Sector Four HQ for the past four years."

  "And your last ship assignment?"

  "That would be eight years ago, Captain. I was on the Picardy Rose with Captain Graham." The names meant nothing to Heris, though she was fairly sure Picardy Rose was a patrol craft. "Command track? Technical?"

  "Command track; I was fourth officer." Then, finally realizing what information might be most useful to her, he added, "Picardy Rose was a patrol craft on picket duty on the frontier."

  "See any action?"

  "No, sir. But Captain Graham ran a very tight ship, and we were always commended for our standards at the annual inspections."

  She would much rather have had a messy combat veteran, but she nodded her thanks, and transferred her gaze to Eugenie Winsloe. "And you, Commander?"

  "I was en route from the Gunnery School, where I did a round as instructor, to my new ship assignment—it would have been Summerwine. My last ship assignment was on Rose of Glory, and before that Alerte. We saw no action, though Rose did win the sector gunnery medal. I haven't been on a cruiser since I was a jig, but I assure the Captain that I'm quite familiar with cruiser weaponry."

  "Very good." It wasn't good at all, but at least Winsloe seemed willing and a bit sharper than Seabolt. "Are you satisfied with your juniors' competence, Commander?"

  She shook her head. "Captain, I couldn't fill a single watch with experienced weapons personnel. It's as if they just grabbed everyone within reach to fill out the numbers. However, the most experienced NCO tells me that if we're granted a few weeks for training, we should do reasonably well."

  As if time would just hold still until they were ready.

  "Kick 'em along faster," Heris told her. "We may not have a few weeks. And if you find someone else aboard with more weapons training, who was misassigned, come tell me about it. We may have to shift people around."

  "We're short of replacement parts, too," Winsloe said. "We'd be shorter if I hadn't spotted the last load departing just as I came aboard. Contractor claimed it was his, but I took the liberty of requisitioning it."

  "Good work, Commander," Heris said.

  She let her gaze move on, to Lt. Commander deFries, the senior navigator.

  "I've been on cruisers, most recently Royal Reef. But the last time I saw action was in Clarion, during the Patchcock mess."

  "Have you had microjump weapons-track drills recently?"

  "No, sir. And I was only third nav officer at Patchcock. However, I did bring aboard a full set of training sims, and four of my enlisted personnel have more recent combat experience than I have."

  That was something, and he had showed initiative in the right direction. "Good . . . I'll be ordering some dry drills with other ships. Have you contacted their navigation officers?"

  "No, sir. We hadn't been told that we would be traveling with other ships."

  Damn secrecy. "We're to take a small group out—the ship names are now on the command board, so you'll want to liase with their navigation officers when we're done here."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Major Foxson . . . let's hear about you."

  "Captain, all my service has been on cruisers of this class; I was on Imperator last and was transferred here because I'd been through the drives refitting on Imp, and they thought I'd be good to take over Indy's new drives."

  Heris had never liked the fashion of truncating ships' names, but that wasn't enough to set her against her senior engineering officer. "So what do you think of them?"

  "A definite improvement over the old, Captain, but they rushed the last part of the job, what with the mutiny. Your insystem's fine, but the FTL drive isn't quite balanced. It'll get us there, but it'll leave a marked signature. And my guess is, it's going to degrade over time. We should have quite a flutter after a dozen long jumps or so."

  "Why'd you accept it, then?"

  "Sir, I came aboard two days after the refit crew signed off on it, or I wouldn't have. And I can't say it's not safe—there was the same modification to Imp, and while the trials showed our scan trace looking like a skip-jumper, the ship herself was steady as a rock, and it never failed. That was two years ago, Standard—they did take it back in and fix it, but now, with the mutiny and all, I imagine they'll refuse to delay."

  He was probably right. And after all, he was coming along; if the drive failed and stranded them in some strange corner of the universe, he'd be there too.

  That left Elise Donnehy, who had had cruiser duty six years before, but since then had worked with environmental systems design for deepspace repair ships. She cheerfully admitted to having forgotten which pipes ran where, though she insisted she could pick it up again fast.

  Heris wanted to bang her head on the desk in sheer frustration, but she knew better. The lives of her little flotilla depended on her ability to tolerate frustration and make silk purses out of very crooked sows' ears. She could have done it with her old crew, or for that matter with any capable crew used to working together. She shook her head. No use thinking what might have been, she had the resources she had, pitiful as they were.

  The other ships in the group seemed less disorganized than her own. At least that meant she had the worst problems closest at hand, where she could work on them directly.

  An hour before mid-third shift, Heris's alarm went off, waking her from a pleasant dream in which she and Petris chased each other along a beach, in and out of warm, clear wavelets . . . the whole setting looked like a travel poster, in shades of blue and turquoise and white. She groaned and pushed her face back into the pillow for a moment. But she was awake . . . and now that she was awake, she remembered why she'd set the alarm. The environmental parameters at the start of first shift were always off, though the record books had been neatly initialled beside a record of perfect values all through third shift.

  Heris splashed cold water on her face from the carafe of ice water she kept beside her bunk and put on a clean uniform. If one was going to appear like the wrath of gods to a slacking third-shift crew, a clean uniform enhanced the effect. Seabolt's natural knife-crease style would have worked, but Seabolt was convinced the initialled log sheets meant something was wrong with the machinery.

  Heris clipped on her tagger and comunit—bridge had to know where the captain was—and pulled a pair of softies over her uniform boots. Most third-shift crew wore softies, to reduce noise, and it certainly made sneaking up on wrongdoers easier. She went aft, meeting—as she expected—no one at that hour in officer country. Down the nearest personnel ladder, one deck . . . two . . . and out into the port passage of Environmental, where the distant rhythmic thump of the pumps became audible.

  She stood a moment, listening, feeling it through the soles of her feet and with one finger on the bulkhead, a trick she'd been taught as a jig by a grizzled master chief. Open the mouth . . . turn the head from side to side . . . and irregularities in the pump could be diagnosed from here. It all sounded normal, though.

  She turned to her left, and saw that the hatch to the personnel lock separating the main port passage from the main starboard passage was open. She looked at the status telltales: all four green. Not good; someone had left the whole lock open, as a convenience . . . and a very definite danger. She looked at the hatch mechanisms—they should have closed the hatches automatically, but someone had stuck a stylus in the mechanism to hold them open. And . . . someone had put a stickypatch over the sensor that should have picked up the telltale lights.

  Seabolt would assume sabo
tage and conspiracy, but Heris knew laziness was far more likely. Someone didn't want to wait while the locks cycled properly to give access from one side to the other—she'd find the forward lock jammed open too, no doubt. Instead of walking the complete round to make the required checks, someone was darting through to sign off the log at the other side.

  Heris stepped back through to the port passage, pulled out the roll of tactape and laid a strip on each of the five bottom rungs of the ladder and along the underside of the handholds, just where fingers would grip. Then she went back in the lock, removed the stylus from that hatch, swung it closed, and dogged it behind her. She put a line of tactape on the wheel, very carefully. She left the stickypatch alone, went into the lock itself, closed and dogged that hatch and marked its wheel with tactape.