The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Well, Goonar, you're doing well, it looks like." Elias, twenty years a captain, had the assurance of that experience; in another decade he might retire to the Fathers. "You've a smart crew, the way they got that cargo shifted so fast."

  "I have a message for the Fathers," Goonar said, "that needs to go by some other route."

  "Ah. Well, let's hear it."

  Goonar explained the whole long complicated tale, as he knew it, and Elias said nothing. When he'd finished, Elias shook his head. "You'd have done better to have a dull first run, Goonar."

  "I know that," Goonar said.

  "But—you've done as well as you could, I think. What about this theatrical troupe? Do you think they'll use us again?"

  That hadn't occurred to Goonar. "I don't know," he said. "Bethya—their manager and star—has talked about settling somewhere and giving up touring."

  "Ah. She's the redhead, isn't she?"

  "Yes . . ." He knew what was coming.

  "Handsome woman. Not that old. You really need to find another wife, Goonar, someone to make you comfortable between trips."

  "I'm not looking for a wife," Goonar said.

  "You say that now, but when you're retired . . ."

  "Elias, please. Enough."

  "All right, all right, I won't say any more. I'll take your message to the Fathers, and I won't mention your . . . the . . . redhead. You do know she likes you?"

  "I know no such thing," Goonar said. He could feel himself reddening. "She's polite to everyone."

  "None so blind . . ." Elias murmured, applying himself to his dessert.

  "Do you want to meet the heretic?"

  "No. What do I know about theology? Now if you'd extricated a specialist in olive genetics . . ."

  Goonar laughed. "I'll tell Basil that, shall I? If you must take in fugitives, make sure they have salable information?"

  Elias gave him an enigmatic look. "As a matter of fact, Goonar, that's exactly what you should do. Policy is, we don't take fugitives or mix with politics. Practically speaking . . . if you must take in a fugitive, make sure it's someone whose passage profits us."

  "Um. I don't think we'll make much off this theologian—but perhaps there's a hidden treasure in the theatrical troupe. I've got that lighting in the shuttle bay now . . ."

  * * *

  Remembering the ease with which crew got drunk and spilled secrets, Goonar didn't permit his illicit passengers to debark at Zenebra. He offered Esmay a chance to send word home to Altiplano, but she declined at first.

  "But they should know," Basil said.

  "They'll just worry," Esmay said.

  "Of course they'll worry," Basil said. "That's what they're supposed to do. You say they knew about the marriage—"

  "That's what the captain of the ship we were on told us, yes."

  "And then you just disappeared. They could think you're dead. And they could help you."

  "I don't think so," Esmay said. She looked stubborn.

  "I'm not comfortable with this," Goonar said finally. "I feel almost like a thief, as if I'd stolen you away."

  Esmay snorted, then laughed aloud. Her laughs were rare, he'd noticed. "Not likely . . . but if you insist, Captain, I'll call home and let them know I'm fine." She was not fine, he could see that—she was kilos thinner than she had been when she came aboard, despite what he knew was a good galley, but he wasn't going to argue that. Let her family take care of her.

  He would have paid for the call, but Esmay insisted on paying the toll herself. The estimated delivery time, for a regular ansible relay from Zenebra to Altiplano, was surprisingly long.

  "We don't have a real-time connection," Esmay said. "At least, not unless you set it up and pay in advance. Messages are batched through. And there are what—three or four relays between?"

  "So we'll be in Castle Rock, nearly, when your family gets your message—"

  "Unless it makes the minimum transit. But I don't see that it makes any difference. They're hardly going to come charging to the rescue—they have their own lives."

  Goonar said nothing more, but when she had gone back to the ship, he placed his own. If she were his daughter, he'd want to know what had happened by priority access. And what if Fleet reported her discharged and her family had no idea how to find her?

  On the passage from Zenebra to Rockhouse Major, the main commercial docking point orbiting Castle Rock, Goonar wracked his brain to find some way to make a profit from his cargo. He talked to all of them—Simon, Betharnya, the other acting troupe members, Esmay Suiza—seizing on every scrap of information that might be useful later. Talks with Simon always ended in a theological briar patch he saw no purpose in, but the actors had a unique viewpoint of all the places they'd been, and ships they'd traveled on. The difficulty of finding sound engineers on this world—the timing of theater and music festivals—Goonar filed it all away. Esmay was sure she wouldn't get back into Fleet, not for a long time, but Goonar, thinking of her as a conduit to Brun Meager and Fleet both, plied her with Terakian & Sons trade doctrine. What they wanted from Fleet, what they wanted from the government . . . just in case she might be in a position to say something useful. All this almost kept his mind off fantasies of himself and Bethya.

  Esmay pored over the meagre news available at the kiosk on Zenebra. The very meagreness worried her. If the mutiny had been crushed, in these past weeks, that should surely be in the news. Instead, she noticed talk of rising prices, of concern by traders and reassurances from Fleet. She had wanted so badly to find out about Barin, but civilians had no access to the Fleet personnel databases. Would they even tell her if something had happened? She was his wife, after all. If Admiral Serrano hadn't forced an annulment.

  Copper Mountain Base

  The shuttle down to the surface lurched and swayed as it met a cold front, and sank through it toward the landing field. Barin tried to put his mind on something else, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw that dark chamber, the glitter of headlamps on wet metal. Then Ghormley's frightened voice, and the brilliant flash. Every bounce of the shuttle reminded him of the abrupt shifts of the artificial gravity. And that scything light . . .

  The shuttle's landing gear slammed into the ground; Barin grunted and looked at the others. No one was watching him; each seemed sunk in a private reverie. He hoped theirs were better than his.

  Copper Mountain's reception hall looked just the same, ugly murals and all, as the first time he'd seen it. Worse, because now he wasn't a student, come for a course—now he was a casualty, loaded into an ambulance with three others as if they were slabs of meat. Someone who still might not make it, who shouldn't be cluttering up the sickbay of a fighting ship—he'd overheard that reason for shipping some of them here, for treatment downside. On the ride to the hospital, all he could see out the back was a lowering gray sky that exactly expressed his mood. But at least it wasn't a ship; the gravity wouldn't shift, or the ground split, or the air sweep off into vacuum.

  His first examination did nothing to dispel his gloom. When doctors muttered and prodded at parts of yourself you couldn't see, it never meant anything good. The phrase "the best they could" occurred several times.

  "I'm sorry," one of the doctors finally said. "But we're going to have to combine surgery and regen technology. You'll be off duty quite a while." He sounded almost cheerful about it. "You'll need some rehab afterwards, because of prolonged immobilization, but you should make a full recovery."

  The surgeries and regen treatments took over a week. When they were done, the surgeons came in to brag about their work, and Barin realized for the first time just how narrowly he'd missed death. Both legs, both arms, pelvis, two crushed vertebrae, and a depressed skull fracture . . . and the burns.

  "You're lucky to be alive," one told him. "Your ship surgeons did a good job with what they had. But you've been immobile for several months, and your muscle mass is down—" Barin could see that, now that he wasn't encased in splints and casts. "So the next th
ing is to get you back in motion, so you can start getting fit again."

  Several weeks later, when Barin was able to walk the length of the rehab gym without stumbling or getting out of breath, he was put on light duty. He welcomed the distraction; he was getting stronger day by day, and his mind needed something to do.

  The assignment to form a support team for a forensic group investigating the Stack Islands marked his return to limited full duty. Barin looked at the information he'd been given and went to find Corporal Gelan Meharry.

  Gelan Meharry didn't look much like his big sister. Barin had met Methlin Meharry only that once, on Heris's ship, back when he was trying to clear Esmay's name. She had looked every bit as dangerous as her legend, and he'd wondered at the time why she hadn't had the scar on her face removed. It was not something to ask about. Gelan had the same green eyes, but his hair was darker, and he looked more subdued than sullen.

  "Lieutenant," Meharry said. Then his eyes lit up. "Excuse me, sir, but—are you related to Commander Heris Serrano?"

  "That's right," Barin said. "She's my aunt. And you're Methlin Meharry's brother."

  An expression Barin readily understood passed across Meharry's face. "Her baby brother, she'll tell anyone . . ."

  "I know the feeling," Barin said. "But from what I hear, you're no one's baby. You nearly scotched the mutiny before it started, is how the story goes."

  Now the face was closed, almost as if in pain. "Thanks, sir, but that's not quite how it went. If I'd figured out a way to do something sooner . . ." His voice trailed off; Barin knew that mental path well.

  "If I had figured out sooner that there were leaks in gas lines, I wouldn't have lost two men out of my damage control team," Barin said.

  Meharry looked at him.

  "Hull breach," Barin said. "Cracks in adjoining compartments, in Environmental. We were trying to save the growth chambers. Spalled fragments had gone everywhere; we had leaks all over the place. I was so worried about the hydraulic lines, I didn't even think—" He shook his head, unable to go on.

  "It wasn't your fault, sir," Meharry said. "You can't think of everything."

  "Nor can you," Barin said. "I'll bet you were thinking as hard as you could, weren't you?"

  "Yes, sir. But I couldn't find a way—"

  "Sometimes there isn't one," Barin said. He didn't really believe that for himself, but telling himself that was getting him through the days. "Anyway, Corporal, what I'm actually here for is that we're both assigned to a team that's going back out there—to both the prison and the weapons research facility or what's left of it. Apparently the powers that be think the planet's secure enough now that they can afford the time and manpower to do some forensic work."

  Meharry's jaw muscles clenched. "I . . . don't really want to go, Lieutenant."

  "No, I imagine not."

  "But we do what we have to," Meharry said. "When do we leave?"

  "Tomorrow. I was hoping you'd help me out; I'm supposed to pick some people out of the pool of extras, and I just got out of hospital. I haven't a clue who's good at what. The forensic team's already assigned; they're specialists. There's a bunch of civilian scientists and technicians. But I'm supposed to come up with data transcription clerks, communications—support generally. You've been here for months; could you help me with this?"

  "Of course, sir." Meharry took the thick stack of personnel sheets Barin handed him. "How many? And are we supplying food service support?"

  "There's five on the forensic team, about a dozen civilians, and I was told that I could have as much for support as I wanted. The major said the more I could get out of his hair the better. And yes, I'm supposed to arrange food service. And all I've had here is hospital food." Barin put a plaintive note in that and was relieved to see Meharry smile.

  "Let's see if—yes, here's a good cook on your list. And another. Clerks—hmmm. Koniston's always cheerful and doesn't make funny noises when he's working—" Meharry looked up and explained that. "Andersson's a good clerk, but he drives me nuts; he's always hissing or clicking his tongue or something. We don't need that in a small team. Koniston, Bunley, Mohash and . . . let's see, is Simi—no. Well . . . Purto, then. Four clerks ought to be enough. Communications . . . we should ask Ensign Pardalt, sir."

  "She's the one who built that whatchamacallit to get a signal out?"

  "Yes, sir. She was a junior instructor in history, I think it was, and after that they moved her into communications. She probably knows all the techs."

  "I'll find her," Barin said. "I'm guessing we need a couple of techs—"

  "Sir, I'd recommend four. If we have personnel on both Stack islands, we'll want a primary and backup for each team."

  "Yes, of course. Do you think you can pick out the rest of what we need, and have a list for me when I get back from seeing Ensign Pardalt?"

  "Yes, sir." Meharry paused, then went on. "Sir, am I supposed to be on your team, or with forensics?"

  "They said they'd assigned you to me, because then you'd be handy to answer any questions."

  "Yes, sir."

  Barin found the communications building easily enough, but locating Ensign Pardalt took longer. She was not in her temporary office, or anywhere in the main control rooms. Finally a pivot said she was probably down in data analysis. Data analysis was in the basement.

  At first he thought the young woman hunched over a stack of printouts was an enlisted tech; she didn't look up, which gave him a chance to notice the insignia before he blundered. He watched her a moment longer. Sleek red hair, hanging forward a little as she scanned the papers and tapped on her handcomp. Pale brows drawn together with intensity of concentration.

  "Excuse me," Barin said. "I'm looking for Ensign Pardalt."

  She looked up, and blinked at him a moment, then flushed and pushed back her seat to stand. "Sir, sorry . . . I'm Ensign Pardalt."

  "I'm Jig Serrano," Barin said. "Sorry to interrupt you, but I need some advice."

  "Advice? From me?" She looked almost scared.

  "Yes," Barin said. "I'm supposed to assemble a support team for a trip out to the Stack Islands, and I need the names of some decent communications techs. Corporal Meharry suggested that you might know who on this list would work best in a situation like that." He held out the list.

  "Oh . . . well, I don't know them all . . ." But she scanned down the list; he recognized total concentration and said nothing more.

  "How many?" she asked.

  "Four or five," Barin said.

  She rattled off four names, marking them with her stylus.

  "Thanks," Barin said. "May I ask what you're doing?"

  "Trying to figure out who disabled the weather satellite so that no one saw the Bonar Tighe's troop shuttles approaching the Stack Islands," she said. "The problem is, MetSat IV had been acting up for a couple of years. So it could have been just a random glitch—"

  "Convenient, though," Barin said. "The previous acting up could have been cover for this."

  "Yes. But I can't think of a way to prove or disprove that."

  It sounded tedious enough to him. "I don't suppose you'd like to come along on our little jaunt?"

  She looked alarmed. "Not really, sir, but of course if you need me . . ."

  "No, that's all right. I'm just glad I don't have your job."

  Chapter Twelve

  R.S.S. Indefatigable

  Heris Serrano had a few days' peace while Seabolt thought of some other nonsense to obsess over. So far they'd been lucky; no mutineer had attacked them, and they'd detected no sign that one had passed. She was working on another drill schedule when she got a call from the bridge.

  "Captain, I just wondered . . . what if an ansible transmits a pre-message alert, but then no message?" Jig Hargrove, the junior officer on communications this shift, had an earnest face that turned even the simplest question into Something Serious.

  "What do you mean?" Heris asked.

  "You know how—" Heris winced; all the ju
nior officers had picked up Seabolt's habit of starting every explanation with that phrase. "—how an ansible sends out an ID and clear-channel blip before sending a message?"